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OF 

DR.  AND  MRS.  S.  M.  WYLIE 
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I 


EUGENE  ARAM  ANI)  MADELINE. — p.  257 


t  fiotti  Upttcm  lEtutton 


EUGENE  ARAM 

%  ®itle 


BY 

SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON,  BART. 


“Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill. 
Our  fatal  Shadows  that  walk  by  os  still. 


. All  things  that  are 

Made  for  our  general  uses,  are  a*  war  — 

Ev’n  we  among  ourselves  1  ” 

John  Fletcher,  upon  An  Honest  Man's  Fortune 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO 
187  5. 


* 


/ 


s 


^  *  Mr 4*  R,  K.  J 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  Bakt. 

etc.,  etc. 


It  has  long  been  my  ambition  to  add  some  humble 
tribute  to  the  offerings  laid  upon  the  shrine  of  your 
genius.  At  each  succeeding  book  that  I  have  given 
to  the  world,  I  have  paused  to  consider  if  it  were 
worthy  to  be  inscribed  with  your  great  name,  and  at 
each  I  have  played  the  procrastinator,  and  hoped  for 
that  morrow  of  better  desert  which  never  came.  But 
N  defluat  amnis,  the  time  runs  on  — and  I  am  tired  of 
waiting  for  the  ford  which  the  tides  refuse.  I  seize, 
\  then,  the  present  opportunity,  not  as  the  best,  but  as 
the  only  one  I  can  be  sure  of  commanding,  to  express 
that  affectionate  admiration  with  which  you  have 
inspired  me  in  common  with  all  your  contemporaries, 
and  which  a  French  writer  has  not  ungracefully 
termed  “  the  happiest  prerogative  of  genius.”  As  a 
Poet,  and  as  a  Novelist,  your  fame  has  attained  to 
that  height  in  which  praise  has  become  superfluous  ; 

A*  (  v) 


71 


DEDICATION. 


out  in  tlie  character  of  the  writer  there  seems  to  me 
a  yet  higher  claim  to  veneration  than  in  that  of  the 
writings.  The  example  your  genius  sets  us,  who  can 
emulate?  —  the  example  your  moderation  bequeaths 
to  us,  who  shall  forget?  That  nature  must  indeed 
be  gentle  which  has  conciliated  the  envy  that  pursues 
intellectual  greatness,  and  left  without  an  enemy  a 
man  who  has  no  living  equal  in  renown. 

You  have  gone  for  a  while  from  the  scenes  you 
have  immortalized,  to  regain,  we  trust,  the  health 
which  has  been  impaired  by  your  noble  labors,  or  by 
the  manly  struggles  with  adverse  fortunes,  which 
have  not  found  the  frame  as  indomitable  as  the  mind. 
Take  with  you  the  prayers  of  all  whom  your  genius, 
with  playful  art,  has  soothed  in  sickness  —  or  has 
strengthened,  with  generous  precepts,  against  the 
calamities  of  life.* 

“Navis  quoe  tibi  creditum 

Debes  Virgilium - 

Reddas  incolumem !  ”  -f- 

You,  I  feel  assured,  will  not  deem  it  presumptuous 
in  one,  who,  to  that  bright  and  undying  flame  which 
now  streams  from  the  grey  hills  of  Scotland,  —  the 

*  Written  at  the  time  of  Sir  W.  Scott’s  visit  to  Italy  —  after  the 
great  blow  to  his  health  and  fortunes. 

f  0  ship,  thou  owest  to  us  Virgil  —  restore  in  safety  him  whom 
we  entrusted  to  thee  l 


DEDICATION. 


V1J 


last  halo  with  which  you  have  crowned  her  literary 
glories,  —  has  turned  from  his  first  childhood  with  a 
deep  and  unrelaxing  devotion;  you,  I  feel  assured, 
will  not  deem  it  presumptuous  in  him  to  inscribe  an 
idle  work  with  your  illustrious  name:  —  a  wsrk 
which,  however  worthless  in  itself,  assumes  some¬ 
thing  of  value  in  his  eyes  when  thus  rendered  a 
tribute  of  respect  to  you. 

The  Author  of  “  Eugene  Aram.” 

London, 

December  22,  1881 


.  : 

’■  t.*V 


^  • 


PEEFACE 

TO 


THE  EDITION  OF  1831. 


Since,  dear  Deader,  I  last  addressed  thee,  in  Paul 
Clifford,  nearly  two  years  have  elapsed,  and  some¬ 
what  more  than  four  years  since,  in  Pelham,  our 
familiarity  first  began.  The  Tale  which  I  now  sub¬ 
mit  to  thee  differs  equally  from  the  last  as  from  the 
first  of  those  works ;  for,  of  the  two  evils,  perhaps  it 
is  even  better  to  disappoint  thee  in  a  new  style,  than 
to  weary  thee  with  an  old.  With  the  facts  on  which 
the  tale  of  Eugene  Aram  is  founded,  I  have  exer¬ 
cised  the  common  and  fair  license  of  writers  of 
fiction :  it  is  chiefly  the  more  homely  parts  of  the 
real  story  that  have  been  altered;  and  for  what  I 
have  added,  and  what  omitted,  I  have  the  sanction 
of  all  established  authorities,  who  have  taken  greater 
liberties  with  characters  yet  more  recent,  and  far 
more  protected  by  historical  recollections.  The  book 
was,  for  the  most  part,  written  in  the  early  part  of 
the  year,  when  the  interest  which  the  task  created 
in  the  Author  was  undivided  by  other  subjects  of 

excitement,  and  he  had  leisure  enough  not  only  to 

(ix) 


X 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1831. 


oe  neseio  quid  meditans  nugarum ,  but  also  to  bo 
totus  in  illis!* 

I  originally  intended  to  adapt  the  story  of  Eugene 
Aram  to  tlie  Stage.  That  design  was  abandoned  when 
more  than  half  completed ;  but  I  wished  to  impart  to 
this  Romance  something  of  the  nature  of  Tragedy, — 
something  of  the  more  transferable  of  its  qualities. 
Enough  of  this :  it  is  not  the  Author’s  wishes,  but 
the  Author’s  books  that  the  world  will  judge  him  by. 
Perhaps,  then  (with  this  I  conclude),  in  the  dull 
monotony  of  public  affairs,  and  in  these  long  winter 
evenings,  when  we  gather  round  the  fire,  prepared 
for  the  gossip’s  tale,  willing  to  indulge  the  fear,  and 
to  believe  the  legend,  perhaps,  dear  Reader,  thou 
mayest  turn,  not  reluctantly,  even  to  these  pages,  for 
at  least  a  newer  excitement  than  the  Cholera,  or  for 
a  momentary  relief  Rom  the  everlasting  discussions 
on  “  the  Bill.”  f 

London, 

December  22,  1831. 

*  Not  only  to  be  meditating  I  know  not  what  of  trifles,  but  also 
to  be  wholly  engaged  on  them. 

j-  The  year  of  the  Reform  BilL 


PEEFACE 


TO 

THE  EDITION  OF  1840. 


The  strange  history  of  Eugene  Aram  had  excited 
my  interest  and  wonder  long  before  the  present  work 
was  composed  or  conceived.  It  so  happened,  that 
during  Aram’s  residence  at  Lynn,  his  reputation  for 
learning  had  attracted  the  notice  of  my  grandfather 
• — a  country  gentleman  living  in  the  same  county, 
and  of  more  intelligence  and  accomplishments  than, 
at  that  day,  usually  characterized  his  class.  Aram 
frequently  visited  at  Hey  don  (my  grandfather’s 
house),  and  gave  lessons,  probably  in  no  very  elevated 
branches  of  erudition,  to  the  younger  members  of 
the  family.  This  I  chanced  to  hear  when  I  was  on 
a  visit  in  Norfolk,  some  two  years  before  this  novel 
was  published,  and  it  tended  to  increase  the  interest 
with  which  I  had  previously  speculated  on  the  pheno¬ 
mena  of  a  trial  which,  take  it  altogether,  is  perhaps 
the  most  remarkable  in  the  register  of  English  crime. 
I  endeavored  to  collect  such  anecdotes  of  Aram’s  life 

(  xi ) 


PREFACE  TO  THE 


_ •  • 

Xll 

and  manners  as  tradition  and  hearsay  still  kept  afloat. 
These  anecdotes  were  so  far  uniform  that  they  all 
concurred  in  representing  him  as  a  person  who,  till 
the  detection  of  the  crime  for  which  he  was  sen¬ 
tenced,  had  appeared  of  the  mildest  character  and 
the  most  unexceptionable  morals.  An  invariable 
gentleness  and  patience  in  his  mode  of  tuition — * 
qualities  then  very  uncommon  at  schools — had  made 
him  so  beloved  by  his  pupils  at  Lynn,  that,  in  after 
life,  there  was  scarcely  one  of  them  who  did  not  per¬ 
sist  in  the  belief  of  his  innocence.  His  personal  and 
moral  peculiarities,  as  described  in  these  pages,  are 
such  as  were  related  to  me  by  persons  who  had  heard 
him  described  by  his  contemporaries :  the  calm  be¬ 
nign  countenance — the  delicate  health — the  thought¬ 
ful  stoop  —  the  noiseless  step  —  the  custom,  not  un¬ 
common  with  scholars  and  absent  men,  of  muttering 
to  himself — a  singular  eloquence  in  conversation, 
when  once  roused  from  silence  —  an  active  tender¬ 
ness  and  charity  to  the  poor,  with  whom  he  was 
always  ready  to  share  his  own  scanty  means  —  an 
apparent  disregard  to  money,  except  when  employed 
in  the  purchase  of  books  —  an  utter  indifference  to 
the  ambition  usually  accompanying  self-taught  talent, 
whether  to  better  the  condition  or  to  increase  the 
repute;  —  these,  and  other  traits  of  the  character 
portrayed  in  the  novel,  are,  as  far  as  I  can  rely  on  my 
information,  faithful  to  the  features  of  the  original. 

That  a  man  thus  described  —  so  benevolent  that 
he  would  rob  his  own  necessities  to  administer  to 


EDITION  OF  1  840. 


Xlll 


those  of  another,  so  humane  that  he  would  turn  aside 
from  the  worm  in  his  path — should  have  been  guilty 
of  the  foulest  of  human  crimes,  viz. — murder  for  the 
sake  of  gain;  that  a  crime  thus  committed  should 
have  been  so  episodical  and  apart  from  the  rest  of  his 
career,  that,  however  it  might  rankle  in  his  con¬ 
science,  it  should  never  have  hardened  his  nature ; 
that,  through  a  life  of  some  duration,  none  of  the 
errors,  none  of  the  vices,  which  would  seem  essen¬ 
tially  to  belong  to  a  character  capable  of  a  deed  so 
black  from  motives  apparently  so  sordid,*  should 
have  been  discovered  or  suspected ; — all  this  presents 
an  anomaly  in  human  conduct  so  rare  and  surprising, 
that  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  subject  more 
adapted  for  that  metaphysical  speculation  and  ana¬ 
lysis,  in  order  to  indulge  which,  Fiction,  whether  in 
the  drama,  or  the  higher  class  of  romance,  seeks  its 
materials  and  grounds  its  lessons  in  the  chronicles 
of  passion  and  crime. 

The  guilt  of  Eugene  Aram  is  not  that  of  a  vulgar 
ruffian :  it  leads  to  views  and  considerations  vitally 
and  wholly  distinct  from  those  with  which  profligate 
knavery  and  brutal  cruelty  revolt  and  displease  us 
in  the  literature  of  Newgate  and  the  Hulks.  His 
crime  does,  in  fact,  belong  to  those  startling  para- 

*  For  I  put  wholly  out  of  question  the  excuse  of  jealousy,  as 
unsupported  by  any  evidence  —  never  hinted  at  by  Aram  himself 
(at  least  on  any  sufficient  authority)  —  and  at  variance  with  the 
only  fact  which  the  trial  establishes,  viz.,  that  the  robbery  was  the 
crime  planned,  and  the  cause,  whether  accidental  or  otherwise,  of 
the  murder. 

1  —  B 


xiv 


PREFACE  TO  THE 


doxes  which  the  poetry  of  all  countries,  and  espe¬ 
cially  of  our  own,  has  always  delighted  to  contem¬ 
plate  and  examine.  Whenever  crime  appears  the 
aberration  and  monstrous  product  of  a  great  intel¬ 
lect,  or  of  a  nature  ordinarily  virtuous,  it  becomes 
not  only  the  subject  for  genius,  which  deals  with 
passions,  to  describe ;  but  a  problem  for  philosophy, 
which  deals  with  actions,  to  investigate  and  solve: — 
hence,  the  Macbeths  and  Bichards,  the  Iagos  and 
Othellos.  My  regret,  therefore,  is  not  that  I  chose 
a  subject  unworthy  of  elevated  fiction,  but  that  such 
a  subject  did  not  occur  to  some  one  capable  of  treat¬ 
ing  it  as  it  deserves;  and  I  never  felt  this  more 
strongly  than  when  the  late  Mr.  Godwin  (in  con¬ 
versing  with  me  after  the  publication  of  this  romance) 
observed  that  “  he  had  always  thought  the  story  of 
Eugene  Aram  peculiarly  adapted  for  fiction,  and  that 
he  had  more  than  once  entertained  the  notion  of 
making  it  the  foundation  of  a  novel.”  I  can  well 
conceive  what  depth  and  power  that  gloomy  record 
would  have  taken  from  the  dark  and  inquiring  genius 
of  the  author  of  Caleb  Williams.  In  fact,  the  crime 
and  trial  of  Eugene  Aram  arrested  the  attention  and 
engaged  the  conjectures  of  many  of  the  most  eminent 
men  of  his  own  time.  His  guilt  or  innocence  was 
the  matter  of  strong  contest;  and  so  keen  and  so 
enduring  was  the  sensation  created  by  an  event  thu3 
completely  distinct  from  the  ordinary  annals  of  human 
crime,  that  even  History  turned  aside  from  the  so¬ 
porous  narrative  of  the  struggles  of  parties,  and  the 


/ 


EDITION  OP  1840.  XT 

feuds  of  kings,  to  commemorate  the  learning  and  the 
guilt  of  the  humble  school-master  of  Lynn.  Did  I 
want  any  other  answer  to  the  animadversions  of 
commonplace  criticism,  it  might  be  sufficient  to  say 
that  what  the  historian  relates,  the  novelist  has  little 
right  to  disdain. 

Before  entering  on  this  romance,  I  examined  with 
some  care  the  probabilities  of  Arams  guilt;  for  I 
need  scarcely  perhaps  observe,  that  the  legal  evidence 
against  him  is  extremely  deficient — furnished  almost 
entirely  by  one  (Houseman)  confessedly  an  accom¬ 
plice  of  the  crime,  and  a  partner  in  the  booty ;  and 
that,  in  the  present  day,  a  man  tried  upon  evidence 
so  scanty  and  suspicious  would  unquestionably  escape 
conviction.  Nevertheless,  I  must  frankly  own  that 
the  moral  evidence  appeared  to  me  more  convincing 
than  the  legal ;  and,  though  not  without  some  doubt, 
which,  in  common  with  many,  I  still  entertain  of  the 
real  facts  of  the  murder,*  I  adopted  that  view  which, 
at  all  events,  was  the  best  suited  to  the  higher  pur¬ 
poses  of  fiction.  On  the  whole,  I  still  think  that  if 
the  crime  were  committed  by  Aram,  the  motive  was 
not  very  far  removed  from  one  which  led  recently  to 
a  remarkable  murder  in  Spain.  A  priest  in  that 
country,  wholly  absorbed  in  learned  pursuits,  and 
apparently  of  spotless  life,  confessed  that,  being  de¬ 
barred  by  extreme  poverty  from  prosecuting  a  study 
which  had  become  the  sole  passion  of  his  existence, 
he  had  reasoned  himself  into  the  belief  that  it  would 


*  See  Preface  to  the  Fresent  Edition,  p.  xxiv 


svi 


PREFACE  TO  T II  E 


be  admissible  to  rob  a  very  dissolute,  worthless  man, 
if  he  applied  the  money  so  obtained  to  the  acquisi¬ 
tion  of  a  knowledge  which  he  could  not  otherwise 
acquire,  and  which  he  held  to  be  profitable  to  man¬ 
kind.  Unfortunately,  the  dissolute  rich  man  was  not 
willing  to  be  robbed  for  so  excellent  a  purpose:  he 
was  armed  and  he  resisted  —  a  struggle  ensued,  and 
the  crime  of  homicide  was  added  to  that  of  robbery. 
The  robbery  was  premeditated :  the  murder  was  ac¬ 
cidental.  But  he  who  would  accept  some  similar 
interpretation  of  Aram’s  crime,  must,  to  comprehend 
fully  the  lessons  which  belong  to  so  terrible  a  picture 
of  frenzy  and  guilt,  consider  also  the  physical  cir¬ 
cumstances  and  condition  of  the  criminal  at  the  time : 
severe  illness  —  intense  labor  of  the  brain — poverty 
bordering  upon  famine — the  mind  preternaturally  at 
work,  devising  schemes  and  excuses  to  arrive  at  the 
means  for  ends  ardently  desired.  And  all  ibis  duly 
considered,  the  reader  may  see  the  crime  bodying 
itself  out  from  the  shades  and  chimeras  of  a  horrible 
hallucination  —  the  awful  dream  of  a  brief  but  deli¬ 
rious  and  convulsed  disease.  It  is  thus  only  that  we 
can  account  for  the  contradiction  of  one  deed  at  war 
with  a  whole  life  —  blasting,  indeed,  for  ever  the 
happiness ;  but  making  little  revolution  in  the  pur¬ 
suits  and  disposition  of  the  character.  No  one  who 
has  examined  with  care  and  thoughtfulness  the 
aspects  of  Life  and  Nature,  but  must  allow  that,  in 
the  contemplation  of  such  a  spectacle,  great  and  most 
moral  truths  must  force  themselves  on  the  notice  and 


EDITION  OF  1840. 


XVU 

eink  deep  into  the  heart.  The  entanglements  of 
human  reasoning ;  the  influence  of  circumstance  upon 
deeds;  the  perversion  that  may  be  made,  by  one 
self-palter  with  the  Fiend,  of  elements  the  most 
glorious ;  the  secret  effect  of  conscience  in  frustrating 
all  for  which  the  crime  was  done  —  leaving  genius 
without  hope,  knowledge  without  fruit  —  deadening 
benevolence  into  mechanism  —  tainting  love  itself 
with  terror  and  suspicion; — such  reflections — lead¬ 
ing,  with  subtler  minds,  to  many  more  vast  and  com¬ 
plicated  theorems  in  the  consideration  of  our  nature, 
social  and  individual  —  arise  out  of  the  tragic  moral 
which  the  story  of  Eugene  Aram  (were  it  but  ade¬ 
quately  treated)  could  not  fail  to  convey. 

Brussels, 

August ,  1840. 


B* 


. 

♦ 

•  - 


PREFACE 


TO 

THE  PRESENT  EDITION. 


If  none  of  my  prose  works  have  been  so  attacked 
as  Eugene  Aram,  none  have  so  completely  triumphed 
over  attack.  It  is  true  that,  whether  from  real  or 
affected  ignorance  of  the  true  morality  of  fiction,  a 
few  critics  may  still  reiterate  the  old  commonplace 
charges  of  “selecting  heroes  from  Newgate,’'  or  “in¬ 
vesting  murderers  with  interest ;  ”  but  the  firm  hold 
which  the  work  has  established  in  the  opinion  of  the 
general  public,  and  the  favor  it  has  received  in  every 
country  where  English  literature  is  known,  suffice  to 
prove  that,  whatever  its  faults,  it  belongs  to  that 
legitimate  class  of  fiction  which  illustrates  life  and 
truth,  and  only  deals  with  crime  as  the  recognized 
agency  of  pity  and  terror,  in  the  conduct  of  tragic 
narrative.  All  that  I  would  say  farther  on  this  score 
has  been  said  in  the  general  defence  of  my  writings 
which  I  put  forth  two  years  ago ;  and  I  ask  the  in¬ 
dulgence  of  the  reader  if  I  repeat  myself :  — 

“  Here,  unlike  the  milder  guilt  of  Paul  Clifford, 
the  author  was  not  to  imply  reform  to  society,  nor 

(xix) 


XX 


PREFACE  TOfllE 

open  in  this  world  atonement  and  pardon  to  tlia 
criminal.  As  it  would  have  been  wholly  in  vain  to 
disguise,  by  mean  tamperings  with  art  and  truth, 
the  ordinary  habits  of  life  and  attributes  of  charac¬ 
ter,  which  all  record  and  remembrance  ascribed  to 
Eugene  Aram,  as  it  would  have  defeated  every  end 
of  the  moral  inculcated  by  his  guilt,  to  portray  in 
the  caricature  of  the  murderer  of  melodrame,  a  man 
immersed  in  study,  of  whom  it  was  noted  that  he 
turned  aside  from  the  worm  in  his  path,  so  I  have 
allowed  to  him  whatever  contrasts  with  his  inexpiable 
crime  have  been  recorded  on  sufficient  authority. 
But  I  have  invariably  taken  care  that  the  crime 
itself  should  stand  stripped  of  every  sophistry,  and 
hideous  to  the  perpetrator  as  well  as  to  the- world. 
Allowing  all  by  which  attention  to  his  biography 
may  explain  the  tremendous  paradox  of  fearful  guilt 
in  a  man  aspiring  after  knowledge,  and  not  generally 
inhumane  —  allowing  that  the  crime  came  upon  him 
in  the  partial  insanity,  produced  by  the  combining 
circumstances  of  a  brain  overwrought  by  intense 
study,  disturbed  by  an  excited  imagination,  and  the 
fumes  of  a  momentary  disease  of  the  reasoning 
faculty,  consumed  by  the  desire  of  knowledge,  un¬ 
wholesome  and  morbid,  because  coveted  as  an  end, 
not  a  means,  added  to  the  other  physical  causes  of 
mental  aberration  —  to  be  found  in  loneliness  and 
want  verging  upon  famine ;  —  all  these,  which  a  bio¬ 
grapher  may  suppose  to  have  conspired  to  his  crime, 
have  never  been  used  by  the  novelist  as  excuses  for 
its  enormity,  nor  indeed,  lest  they  should  seem  aa 


PRESENT  EDITION.  XXI 

excuses,  have  they  ever  been  clearly  presented  to  the 
view.  The  moral  consisted  in  showing  more  than 
the  mere  legal  punishment  at  the  close.  It  was  to 
show  how  the  consciousness  of  the  deed  was  to  ex¬ 
clude  whatever  humanity  of  character  preceded  and 
belied  it  from  all  active  exercise  —  all  social  confi¬ 
dence  ;  how  the  knowledge  of  the  bar  between  the 
minds  of  others  and  his  own  deprived  the  criminal 
of  all  motive  to  ambition,  and  blighted  knowledge 
of  all  fruit :  Miserable  in  his  affections,  barren  in  his 
intellect  —  clinging  to  solitude,  yet  accursed  in  it  — 
dreading  as  a  danger  the  fame  he  had  once  coveted — • 
obscure  in  spite  of  learning,  hopeless  in  spite  of  love, 
fruitless  and  joyless  in  his  life,  calamitous  and  shame¬ 
ful  in  his  end ; — surely  such  is  no  palliative  of  crime, 
no  dalliance  and  toying  with  the  grimness  of  evil ! 
And  surely,  to  any  ordinary  comprehension,  any 
candid  mind,  such  is  the  moral  conveyed  by  the 
fiction  of  Eugene  Aram."  * 

In  point  of  composition  Eugene  Aram  is,  I  think, 
entitled  to  rank  amongst  the  best  of  my  fictions.  It 
somewhat  humiliates  me  to  acknowledge,  that  neither 
practice  nor  study  has  enabled  me  to  surpass  a  work 
written  at  a  very  early  age,  in  the  skilful  construction 
and  patient  development  of  plot ;  and  though  I  have 
since  sought  to  call  forth  higher  and  more  subtle 
passions,  I  doubt  if  I  have  ever  excited  the  two 
elementary  passions  of  tragedy,  viz.,  pity  and  terror, 
to  the  same  degree.  In  mere  style,  too,  Eugene 
Aram,  in  spite  of  certain  verbal  oversights,  and  de- 


*  A  Word  to  the  Public,  1847 


PREFACE  TO  THE 


Kxii 

feels  in  youthful  taste  (some  of  which  I  have  endea¬ 
vored  to  remove  from  the  present  edition),  appears 
to  me  unexcelled  by  any  of  my  later  writings,  at 
least  in  what  I  have  always  studied  as  the  main 
essential  of  style  in  narrative,  viz.,  its  harmony  with 
the  subject  selected,  and  the  passions  to  be  moved ; 
—  while  it  exceeds  them  all  in  the  minuteness  and 
fidelity  of  its  descriptions  of  external  nature.  This 
indeed  it  ought  to  do,  since  the  study  of  external 
nature  is  made  a  peculiar  attribute  of  the  principal 
character  whose  fate  colors  the  narrative.  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  has  been  observed  that  the  time 
occupied  by  the  events  of  the  story  is  conveyed 
through  the  medium  of  such  descriptions.  Each 
description  is  introduced,  not  for  its  own  sake,  but 
to  serve  as  a  calendar  marking  the  gradual  changes 
of  the  seasons  as  they  bear  on  to  his  doom  the  guilty 
worshipper  of  Nature.  And  in  this  conception,  and 
in  the  care  with  which  it  has  been  followed  out,  I 
recognize  one  of  my  earliest  but  most  successful  at¬ 
tempts  at  the  subtler  principles  of  narrative  art. 

In  this  edition  I  have  made  one  alteration,  some¬ 
what  more  important  than  mere  verbal  correction. 
On  going,  with  maturer  judgment,  over  all  the  evi¬ 
dences  on  which  Aram  was  condemned,  I  have  con¬ 
vinced  myself,  that  though  an  accomplice  in  the 
robbery  of  Clarke,  he  was  free  both  from  the  preme¬ 
ditated  design  and  the  actual  deed  of  murder.  The 
crime,  indeed,  would  still  rest  on  his  conscience,  and 
insure  his  punishment,  as  necessarily  incidental  to 
the  robbery  in  which  he  was  an  accomplice,  with 


PRESENT  EDITION. 


XX111 


jiouseman ;  but  finding  my  convictions,  that  in  tbe 
murder  itself  be  bad  no  share,  borne  out  by  tbe 
opinion  of  many  eminent  lawyers,  by  whom  I  have 
beard  tbe  subject  discussed,  I  have  accordingly  so 
shaped  bis  confession  to  Walter. 

Perhaps  it  will  not  be  without  interest  to  tbe 
reader,  if  I  append  to  this  preface  an  authentic  spe¬ 
cimen  of  Augene  Aram's  composition,  for  which  I 
am  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  a  gentleman  by  whose 
grandfather  it  was  received,  with  other  papers  (espe¬ 
cially  a  remarkable  “  Outline  of  a  New  Lexicon  ”) 
during  Aram's  confinement  in  York  Prison.  The 
essay  I  select  is,  indeed,  not  without  value  in  itself 
as  a  very  curious  and  learned  illustration  of  Popular 
Antiquities,  and  it  serves  also  to  show  not  only  the 
comprehensive  nature  of  Aram’s  studies,  and  the 
inquisitive  eagerness  of  his  mind,  but  also  the  fact 
that  he  was  completely  self-taught ;  for  in  contrast 
to  much  philological  erudition,  and  to  passages  that 
evince  considerable  mastery  in  the  higher  resources 
of  language,  we  may  occasionally  notice  those  lesser 
inaccuracies  from  which  the  writings  of  men  solely 
self-educated  are  rarely  free ;  indeed,  Aram  himself, 
in  sending  to  a  gentleman  an  elegy  on  Sir  John  Ar- 
mitage,  which  shows  much  but  undisciplined  power 
of  versification,  says,  “  I  send  this  elegy,  which,  in¬ 
deed,  if  you  had  not  had  the  curiosity  to  desire,  I 
could  not  have  had  the  assurance  to  offer,  scarce  be¬ 
lieving  I,  who  was  hardly  taught  to  read,  have  any 
abilities  to  write.” 


XX1Y 


ESSAY,  BY  EUGENE  ARAM. 


THE  MELSUPPER  AND  SHOUTING 

THE  CHURN. 

These  rural  entertainments  and  usages  were  for¬ 
merly  more  general  all  over  England  than  they  are  at 
present ;  being  become  by  time,  necessity,  or  avarice, 
complex,  confined,  and  altered.  They  are  commonly 
insisted  upon  by  the  reapers  as  customary  things, 
and  a  part  of  their  due  for  the  toils  of  the  harvest, 
and  complied  with  by  their  masters  perhaps  more 
through  regards  of  interest,  than  inclination.  For 
should  they  refuse  them  the  pleasures  of  this  much 
expected  time,  this  festal  night,  the  youth  especially, 
of  both  sexes,  would  decline  serving  them  for  the 
future,  and  employ  their  labors  for  others,  who  would 
promise  them  the  rustic  joys  of  the  harvest  supper, 
mirth  and  music,  dance  and  song.  These  feats  appear 
to  be  the  relics  of  Pagan  ceremonies,  or  of  Judaism, 
it  is  hard  to  say  which,  and  carry  in  them  more 
meaning  and  are  of  far  higher  antiquity  than  is 
generally  apprehended.  It  is  true  the  subject  is  more 
curious  than  important,  and  I  believe  altogether  un¬ 
touched  ;  and  as  it  seems  to  be  little  understood,  has 
been  as  little  adverted  to.  I  do  not  remember  it  to 
have  been  so  much  as  the  subject  of  a  conversation. 
Let  us  make  then  a  little  excursion  into  this  field, 
for  the  same  reason  men  sometimes  take  a  walk.  Its 
traces  are  discoverable  at  a  very  great  distance  of 
time  from  ours,  nay,  seem  as  old  as  a  sense  of  joy 
for  the  benefit  of  plentiful  harvests  and  human  gra« 


ESSAY,  BY  EUGENE  ARAM. 


XXV 


titude  to  the  eternal  Creator  for  his  munificence  to 
men.  We  hear  it  under  various  names  in  different 
counties,  and  often  in  the  same  county;  as,  melsupper, 
churn  supper ,  harvest  supper,  harvest  home,  feast  of 
in-gathering ,  &c.  And  perhaps  this  feast  had  been 
long  observed,  and  by  different  tribes  of  people,  be¬ 
fore  it  became  perceptive  with  the  Jews.  However, 
let  that  be  as  it  will,  the  custom  very  lucidly  appears 
trom  the  following  passages  of  S.  S.,  Exod.  xxiii.  16, 
“And  the  feast  of  harvest,  the  first  fruits  of  thy 
labors,  which  thou  hast  sown  in  the  field.”  And  its 
institution  as  a  sacred  right  is  commanded  in  Levit. 
xxiii.  39 :  “  When  ye  have  gathered  in  the  fruit  of 
the  land,  ye  shall  keep  a  feast  to  the  Lord.” 

The  Jews  then,  as  is  evident  from  hence,  celebrated 
the  feast  of  harvest,  and  that  by  precept ;  and  though 
no  vestiges  of  any  such  feast  either  are  or  can  be 
produced  before  these,  yet  the  oblation  of  the  Pri- 
mitise,  of  which  this  feast  was  a  consequence,  is  met 
with  prior  to  this,  for  we  find  that,  “  Cain  brought 
of  the  fruit  of  the  ground  an  offering  to  the  Lord.” 
—  Gen.  iv.  3. 

Yet  this  offering  of  the  first  fruits,  it  may  well  be 
supposed,  was  not  peculiar  to  the  Jews,  either  at  the 
time  of,  or  after,  its  establishment  by  their  legislator  ; 
neither  the  feast  in  consequence  of  it.  Many  other 
nations,  either  in  imitation  of  the  Jews,  or  rather  by 
tradition  from  their  several  patriarchs,  observed  the 
right  of  offering  their  Primitise,  and  of  solemnizing 
a  festival  after  it,  in  religious  acknowledgment  for 

I.  — 1 


xxvi 


ESSAY,  BY  EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  blessing  of  harvest,  though  that  acknowledgment 
was  ignorantly  misapplied  in  being  directed  to  a  se¬ 
condary,  not  the  primary,  fountain  of  this  benefit ;  — 
namely,  to  Apollo  or  the  Sun. 

For  Callimachus  affirms  that  these  Primitias  were 
sent  by  the  people  of  every  nation  to  the  temple  of 
Apollo  in  Delos,  the  most  distant  that  enjoyed  the 
happiness  of  corn  and  harvest,  even  by  the  Hyper¬ 
boreans  in  particular,  Hymn  to  Apol.,  Oj  [xsvtoi  xa\a[Ar jv 
ts  xai  l spa  Spayixa  rtpuroi  affraxuwv,  “  Bring  the  sacred 
sheafs,  and  the  mystic  offerings.” 

Herodotus  also  mentions  this  annual  custom  of  the 
Hyperboreans,  remarking  that  those  of  Delos  talk 
of  'Ispa  fv(5s<5sp<-sva  sv  xaXafxt)  irvpuv  sg  'Ywtpfiopsuv,  u  Holy 
things  tied  up  in  sheaf  of  wheat  conveyed  from  the 
Hyperboreans.”  And  the  Jews,  by  the  command  of 
their  law,  offered  also  a  sheaf :  “And  shall  reap  the 
harvest  thereof,  then  ye  shall  bring  a  sheaf  of  the 
first  fruits  of  the  harvest  unto  the  priest.” 

This  is  not  introduced  in  proof  of  any  feast  ob¬ 
served  by  the  people  who  had  harvests,  but  to  show 
the  universality  of  the  custom  of  offering  the  Primitise, 
which  preceded  this  feast.  But  yet  it  may  be  looked 
upon  as  equivalent  to  a  proof;  for  as  the  offering  and 
the  feast  appear  to  have  been  always  and  intimately 
connected  in  countries  affording  records,  so  it  is  more 
than  probable  they  were  connected  too  in  countries 
which  had  none,  or  none  that  ever  survived  to  our 
times.  An  entertainment  and  gaiety  were  still  the 
concomitants  to  these  rites,  which  with  the  vulgar, 


ESSAY,  BY  EUGENE  ARAM. 


xxvit 


) 


one  may  pretty  truly  suppose,  were  esteemed  the 
most  acceptable  and  material  part  of  them,  and  a 
great  reason  of  their  having  subsisted  through  such 
a  length  of  ages,  when  both  the  populace  and  many 
of  the  learned  too,  have  lost  sight  of  the  object  to 
which  they  had  been  originally  directed.  This,  among 
many  other  ceremonies  of  the  heathen  worship,  be¬ 
came  disused  in  some  places  and  retained  in  others, 
but  still  continued  declining  after  the  promulgation 
of  the  Gospel.  In  short,  there  seems  great  reason  to 
conclude,  that  this  feast,  which  was  once  sacred  to 
Apollo,  was  constantly  maintained,  when  a  far  less 
valuable  circumstance,  i.  e.,  shouting  the  churn,  is 
observed  to  this  day  by  the  reapers,  and  from  so  old 
an  era ;  for  we  read  of  this  acclamation,  Isa.  xvi.  9 : 
11  For  the  shouting  for  thy  summer  fruits  and  for  thy 
harvest  is  fallen;”  and  again,  ver.  10:  “And  in  the 
vineyards  there  shall  be  no  singing,  their  shouting 
shall  be  no  shouting.”  Hence  then,  or  from  some  of 
the  Phoenician  colonies,  is  our  traditionary  “  shouting 
the  churn.”  But  it  seems  these  Orientals  shouted 
both  for  joy  of  their  harvest  of  graves,  and  of  corn. 
We  have  no  quantity  of  the  first  to  occasion  so  much 
joy  as  does  our  plenty  of  the  last;  and  I  do  not  re¬ 
member  to  have  heard  whether  their  vintages  abroad 
are  attended  with  this  custom.  Bread  or  cakes  com¬ 
pose  part  of  the  Hebrew  offering  ( Levit .  xxiii.  13), 
and  a  cake  thrown  upon  the  head  of  the  victim  was 
also  part  of  the  Greek  offering  to  Apollo  (see  Horn. 
II.  a),  whose  worship  was  formerly  celebrated  in  Bri- 


xxviii  essay,  by  eugene  aram. 

tain,  where  the  May-pole  yet  continues  one  remain 
of  it.  This  they  adorned  with  garlands  on  May-day, 
to  welcome  the  approach  of  Apollo,  or  the  sun,  to¬ 
wards  the  north,  and  to  signify  that  those  flowers 
were  the  product  of  his  presence  and  influence.  But, 
upon  the  progress  of  Christianity,  as  was  observed 
above,  Apollo  lost  his  divinity  again,  and  the  adora¬ 
tion  of  his  deity  subsided  by  degrees.  Yet  so  per¬ 
manent  is  custom,  that  this  right  of  the  harvest  sup¬ 
per,  together  with  that  of  the  May-pole  (of  which 
last  see  Boss,  de  Orig.  and  Frag.  Idolatr.  1,  2),  have 
been  preserved  in  Britain ;  and  what  had  been  an¬ 
ciently  offered  to  the  god,  the  reapers  as  prudently 
eat  up  themselves. 

At  last  the  use  of  the  meal  of  the  new  corn  was 
neglected,  and  the  supper,  so  far  as  meal  was  con¬ 
cerned,  was  made  indifferently  of  old  or  new  corn, 
as  was  most  agreeable  to  the  founder.  And  here  the 
usage  itself  accounts  for  the  name  of  Melsujoper 
(where  mel  signifies  meal,  or  else  the  instrument 
called  with  us  a  Mell,  wherewith  antiquity  reduced 
their  corn  to  meal  in  a  mortar,  which  still  amounts 
to  the  same  thing)  for  provisions  of  meal,  or  of  corn 
in  furmity,  &c.,  composed  by  far  the  greatest  part  in 
these  elder  and  country  entertainments,  perfectly 
conformable  to  the  simplicity  of  those  times,  places, 
and  persons,  however  meanly  they  may  now  be  looked 
upon.  And  as  the  harvest  was  last  concluded  with 
several  preparations  of  meal,  or  brought  to  be  ready 
for  the  mell,  this  term  became,  in  a  translated  signi- 


ESSATc,  £ Y  EUGENE  ARAM. 


XXIX 


fication,  to  mean  the  last  of  other  things ;  as,  when  a 
horse  comes  last  in  the  race,  they  often  say  in  the 
north,  “he  has  got  the  mell 

All  the  other  names  of  this  country  festivity  suffi¬ 
ciently  explain  themselves,  except  Churn-supper , 
and  this  is  entirely  different  from  Melsupper ;  but 
they  generally  happen  so  near  together,  that  they 
are  frequently  confounded.  The  Churn-supper  was 
always  provided  when  all  was  shorn,  but  the  Mel- 
supper  after  all  was  got  in.  And  it  was  called  the 
Churn-supper ,  because,  from  immemorial  times,  it 
was  customary  to  produce  in  a  churn  a  great  quan¬ 
tity  of  cream,  and  to  circulate  it  by  dishfuls  to  each 
of  the  rustic  company,  to  be  eaten  with  bread.  And 
here  sometimes  very  extraordinary  execution  has 
been  done  upon  cream.  And  though  this  custom  has 
been  disused  in  many  places,  and  agreeably  commuted 
for  by  ale,  yet  it  survives  still,  and  that  about  Whitby 
and  Scarborough  in  the  east,  and  round  about  Gis- 
burn,  &c.,  in  Craven,  in  the  west.  But,  perhaps,  a 
century  or  two  more  will  put  an  end  to  it,  and  both 
the  thing  and  name  shall  die.  Vicarious  ale  is  now 
more  approved,  and  the  tankard  almost  everywhere 
politely  preferred  to  the  Churn. 

The  Churn  (in  our  provincial  pronunciation  Kern) 
is  the  Hebrew  Kern,  np  or  Keren,  from  its  being 
circular  like  most  horns :  and  it  is  the  Latin  corona, 
named  so  either  from  radii,  resembling  horns,  as  on 
some  very  antient  coins,  or  from  its  encircling  the 
head ;  so  a  ring  of  people  is  called  corona.  Also  the 


XXX 


ESSAY,  BY  EUGENE  ARAM. 


Celtic  Xoren,  Keren,  or  corn,  which  continues  ac¬ 
cording  to  its  old  pronunciation  in  Cornwall,  &c.,  and 
our  modern  word  horn  is  no  more  than  this ;  the  an- 
tient  hard  sound  of  k  in  corn  being  softened  into 
the  aspirate  h,  as  has  been  done  in  numberless  in¬ 
stances. 

The  Irish  Celtse  also  call  a  round  stone,  clogh  crene, 
where  the  variation  is  merely  dialectic.  Hence,  too, 
our  crane-berries,  i.  e.  round  berries,  from  this  Celtic 
adjective,  crene ,  round. 

N.  B.  The  quotations  from  Scripture  in  Aram’s 
original  MS,  were  both  in  the  Hebrew  character  and 
their  valr  ,e  in  English  sounds. 


/ 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


BOOK  FIKST. 


T «.  $£v,  <pev'  <Ppoveiv  ws  deiydv  ev$a  pt)  rA$ 

Xiei  <ppovovvnf 

******** 

Oi.  Tf  &'  £<ttiv  J  adv^og  rioeXfjXvOa f. 

T«.  ”A^£S  /*2  &  o*kovs‘  pou>sTa  yap  rb  <j6v  tc  oi 

Kayu>  Stocow  roifjdv  tjv  ipol  rridtj. 

OIA:  Trr :  — 316-321. 

Tbi.  Alas!  alas!  how  sad  it  is  to  be  wise,  when  it  is  not  advantageous 
tc  him  who  is  so. 

***** 

Oi.  But  what  is  the  cause  that  you  come  hither  sad. 

Tei.  Dismiss  me  to  my  house.  For  both  you  will  bear  your  fat* 
easier,  and  I  mine,  if  you  take  my  advice. 


- 


-• '  • 


\ 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


BOOK  FIRST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  TILLAGE.  —  ITS  INHABITANTS.  —  AN  OLD  MANOR- 
HOUSE  :  AND  AN  ENGLISH  FAMILY  ;  THEIR  HISTORY, 
INVOLVING  A  MYSTERIOUS  EVENT. 


“  Protected  by  the  divinity  they  adored,  supported  by  the  earth 
which  they  cultivated,  and  at  peace  with  themselves,  they  enjoyed 
the  sweets  of  life,  without  dreading  or  desiring  dissolution.”  — 
Numa  Pompilius. 

In  the  county  of - there  is  a  sequestered  hamlet, 

which  I  have  often  sought  occasion  to  pass,  and  which  I 
have  never  left  without  a  certain  reluctance  and  regret.  It 
is  not  only  (though  this  was  a  remarkable  spell  over  my 
imagination)  that  it  is  the  sanctuary  as  it  were  of  a  singular 
and  fearful  interest ;  but  the  scene  itself  is  one  which  re¬ 
quires  no  legend  to  arrest  the  traveller’s  attention.  I 
know  not  in  any  part  of  the  world  which  it  has  been  my 
lot  to  visit,  a  landscape  so  picturesque,  as  that  which  on 
every  side  of  the  village  I  speak  of,  you  may  survey.  The 

(9i 

r 


10 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


hamlet  to  which  I  shall  here  give  the  name  of  Grassdale, 
is  situated  in  a  valley  which  for  the  length  of  about  a  mile 
winds  among  gardens  and  orchards,  laden  with  fruit,  be¬ 
tween  two  chains  of  gentle  and  fertile  hills. 

Here  singly  or  in  pairs,  are  scattered  cottages,  which 
bespeak  a  comfort  and  a  rural  luxury,  less  often  than  oui 
poets  have  described  the  characteristics  of  the  English 
peasantry.  It  has  been  observed,  and  there  is  a  world  of 
homely,  ay,  and  of  legislative  knowledge  in  the  observa¬ 
tion,  that  wherever  you  see  a  flower  in  a  cottage  garden, 
or  a  bird-cage  at  the  window,  you  may  feel  sure  that  the 
cottagers  are  better  and  wiser  than  their  neighbors  ;  and 
such  humble  tokens  of  attention  to  something  beyond  the 
sterile  labor  of  life,  were  (we  must  now  revert  to  the  past) 
to  be  remarked  in  almost  every  one  of  the  lowly  abodes 
at  Grassdale.  The  jasmine  here,  there  the  vine  clustered 
over  the  threshold,  not  so  wildly  as  to  testify  negligence ; 
but  rather  to  sweeten  the  air  than  to  exclude  it  from  the 
inmates.  Each  of  the  cottages  possessed  at  its  rear  its 
plot  of  ground,  apportioned  to  the  more  useful  and  nutri¬ 
tious  product  of  nature  ;  while  the  greater  part  of  them 
fenced  also  from  the  unfrequented  road  a  little  spot  for 
the  lupin,  the  sweet  pea,  or  the  many  tribes  of  the  Eng¬ 
lish  rose.  And  it  is  not  unworthy  of  remark,  that  the  bees 
came  in  greater  clusters  to  Grassdale  than  to  any  other 
part  of  that  rich  and  cultivated  district.  A  small  piece  of 
waste  land,  which  was  intersected  by  a  brook,  fringed  with 
ozier  and  dwarf  and  fantastic  pollards,  afforded  pasture 
(or  a  few  cows,  and  the  only  carrier’s  solitary  horse.  The 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


11 


stream  itself  was  of  no  ignoble  repute  among  the  gentle 
craft  of  the  Angle,  the  brotherhood  whom  our  associations 
defend  in  the  spite  of  our  mercy ;  and  this  repute  drew  wel¬ 
come  and  periodical  itinerants  to  the  village,  who  furnish¬ 
ed  it  with  its  scanty  news  of  the  great  world  without,  and 
maintained  in  a  decorous  custom  the  little  and  single  hos¬ 
telry  of  the  place.  Not  that  Peter  Dealtry,  the  proprietor 
of  the  ‘  Spotted  Dog,’  was  altogether  contented  to  subsist 
upon  the  gains  of  his  hospitable  profession :  he  joined 
thereto  the  light  cares  of  a  small  farm,  held  under  a  wealthy 
and  an  easy  landlord ;  and  being  moreover  honored  with 
the  dignity  of  clerk  to  the  parish,  he  was  deemed  by  his 
neighbors  a  person  of  no  small  accomplishment,  and  no 
insignificant  distinction.  He  was  a  little,  dry,  thin  man,  of 
a  turn  rather  ‘Sentimental  than  jocose  ;  a  memory  well 
stored  with  fag-ends  of  psalms,  and  hymns  which  being  less 
familiar  than  the  psalms  to  the  ears  of  the  villagers,  were 
more  than  suspected  to  be  his  own  composition  ;  often  gave 
a  poetic  and  semi-religous  coloring  to  his  conversation, 
which  accorded  rather  with  his  dignity  in  the  church,  than 
his  post  at  the  Spotted  Dog.  Yet  he  disliked  not  his  joke, 
though  it  was  subtle  and  delicate  of  nature ;  nor  did  he 
disdain  to  bear  companionship  over  his  own  liquor,  with 
guests  less  gifted  and  refined. 

In  the  centre  of  the  village  you  chanced  upon  a  cottage 
which  had  been  lately  white-washed,  where  a  certain  pre¬ 
ciseness  in  the  owner  might  be  detected  in  the  clipped 
hedge,  and  the  exact  and  newly  mended  stile  by  which  you 
approached  the  habitation  ;  wherein  dwelt  the  beau  and 


12 


EUGENE  A  R A  M . 


bachelor  of  the  village,  somewhat  antiquated  it  is  true,  but 
still  an  object  of  great  attention  and  some  hope  to  the 
elder  damsels  in  the  vicinity,  and  of  a  respectful  popularity, 
that  did  not  however  prohibit  a  joke  to  the  younger  part 
of  the  sisterhood.  Jacob  Bunting,  so  was  this  gentleman 
called,  had  been  for  many  years  in  the  king’s  service,  in 
which  he  had  risen  from  the  rank  of  corporal,  and  had 
saved  and  pinched  together  a  certain  small  independence 
upon  which  he  now  rented  his  cottage  and  enjoyed  his 
leisure.  He  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world,  and  pro¬ 
fited  in  shrewdness  by  his  experience  ;  he  had  rubbed  off, 
however,  all  superfluous  devotion  as  he  rubbed  off  his  pre¬ 
judices,  and  though  he  drank  more  often  than  any  one  ehe 
with  the  landlord  of  the  Spotted  Dog,  he  also  quarrelled 
with  him  the  oftenest,  and  testified  the  least  forbearance 
at  the  publican’s  segments  of  psalmody.  Jacob  was  a 
tall,  comely,  and  perpendicular  personage  ;  his  threadbare 
coat  was  scrupulously  brushed,  and  his  hair  punctiliously 
plastered  at  the  sides  into  two  stiff  obstinate-looking  curls, 
and  at  the  top  into  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  a  feather, 
though  it  was  much  more  like  a  tile.  His  conversation 
had  in  it  something  peculiar ;  generally  it  assumed  a  quick, 
short,  abrupt  turn,  that,  retrenching  all  superfluities  of 
pronoun  and  conjunction,  and  marching  at  once  upon  the 
meaning  of  the  sentence,  had  in  it  a  military  and  Spartan 
significance,  which  betrayed  how  difficult  it  often  is  for  a 
man  to  forget  that  he  has  been  a  corporal.  Occasionally 
indeed,  for  where  but  in  farces  is  the  phraseology  of  the 
humorist  always  the  same?  he  escaped  into  a  more  en 


EUGENE  ARAM.  la 

larged  and  christian-like  method  of  dealing  with  the  king’s 
English,  but  that  was  chiefly  noticeable,  when  from  con¬ 
versation  he  launched  himself  into  a  lecture,  a  luxury  the 
worthy  soldier  loved  greatly  to  indulge,  for  much  had  he 
seen  and  somewhat  had  he  reflected  ;  and  valuing  him¬ 
self,  which  was  odd  in  a  corporal,  more  on  his  knowledge 
of  the  world  than  his  knowledge  even  of  war,  he  rarely 
missed  any  occasion  of  edifying  a  patient  listener  with  the 
result  of  his  observations. 

After  you  had  sauntered  by  the  veteran’s  door,  beside 
which  you  generally,  if  the  evening  were  fine,  or  he 
was  not  drinking  with  neighbor  Dealtry  —  or  taking  his 
tea  with  gossip  this  or  master  that  —  or  teaching  some 
emulous  urchins  the  broadsword  exercise  —  or  snaring 
trout  in  the  stream  —  or  in  short,  otherwise  engaged ; 
beside  which,  I  say,  you  not  unfrequently  beheld  him  sit¬ 
ting  on  a  rude  bench,  and  enjoying  with  half-shut  eyes, 
crossed  legs,  but  still  unindulgently  erect  posture,  the 
luxury  of  his  pipe  •  you  ventured  over  a  little  wooden 
bridge  ;  beneath  which,  clear  and  shallow,  ran  the  rivulet 
we  have  before  honorably  mentioned  ;  and  a  walk  of  a 
few  minutes  brought  you  to  a  moderately  sized  and  old- 
fashioned  mansion  —  the  manor-house  of  the  parish.  It 
stood  at  the  very  foot  of  the  hill ;  behind,  a  rich,  ancient, 
and  hanging  wood,  brought  into  relief  —  the  exceeding 
freshness  and  verdure  of  the  patch  of  green  meadow  imme¬ 
diately  in  front.  On  one  side,  the  garden  was  bounded 
by  the  village  church-yard,  with  its  simple  mounds,  and 
its  few  scattered  and  humble  tombs.  The  church  was  of 


1.  —2 


14 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


0 


great  antiquity  ;  and  it  was  only  in  one  point  of  view  that 
you  caught  more  than  a  glimpse  of  its  grey  tower  and 
graceful  spire,  so  thickly  and  so  darkly  grouped  the  yew 
tree  and  the  larch  around  the  edifice.  Opposite  the  gate 
by  which  you  gained  the  house,  the  view  was  not  ex¬ 
tended,  but  rich  with  wood  and  pasture,  backed  by  a  hill, 
which,  less  verdant  than  its  fellows,  was  covered  with 
sheep  ;  while  you  saw  hard  by  the  rivulet  darkening  and 
stealing  away  ;  till  your  sight,  though  not  your  ear,  lost 
it  among  the  wood-land. 

Trained  up  the  embrowned  paling  on  either  side  of  the 
gate,  were  bushes  of  rustic  fruit,  and  fruit  and  flowers 
(through  plots  of  which  green  and  winding  alleys  had  been 
cut  with  no  untasteful  hand)  testified,  by  their  thriving 
and  healthful  looks,  the  care  bestowed  upon  them.  The 
main  boasts  of  the  garden  were  on  one  side,  a  huge  horse- 
chesnuttree — the  largest  in  the  village  ;  and  on  the  other, 
an  arbor  covered  without  with  honeysuckles,  and  tapes¬ 
tried  within  by  moss.  The  house,  a  grey  and  quaint 
building  of  the  time  of  James  I.  with  stone  copings  and 
gable  roof,  could  scarcely  in  these  days  have  been  deemed 
a  fitting  residence  for  the  lord  of  the  manor.  Nearly  the 
whole  of  the  centre  was  occupied  by  the  hall,  in  which 
the  meals  of  the  family  were  commonly  held  —  only  two 
other  sitting-rooms  of  very  moderate  dimensions  had  been 
reserved  by  the  architect  for  the  convenience  or  ostenta¬ 
tion  of  the  proprietor.  An  ample  porch  jutted  from  the 
main  building,  and  this  was  covered  with  ivy,  as  the  win¬ 
dows  were  with  jasmine  and  honeysuckle ;  while  seats 


EUGENE  ARAM 


15 

were  ranged  inside  the  porch,  covered  with  many  a  rude 
initial  and  long-past  date. 

The  owner  of  this  mansion  bore  the  name  of  Roland 
Lester.  His  forefathers,  without  pretending  to  high  an¬ 
tiquity  of  family,  had  held  the  dignity  of  squires  to  Grass- 
dale  for  some  two  centuries  ;  and  Rowland  Lester  was 
perhaps  the  first  of  the  race  who  had  stirred  above  fifty 
miles  from  the  house  in  which  each  successive  lord  had  re¬ 
ceived  his  birth,  or  the  green  church-yard  in  which  was 
yet  chronicled  his  death.  The  present  proprietor  was  a 
man  of  cultivated  tastes  ;  and  abilities,  naturally  not  much 
above  mediocrity,  had  been  improved  by  travel  as  well  as 
study.  Himself  and  one  younger  brother  had  been  early 
left  masters  of  their  fate  and  their  several  portions.  The 
younger,  Geoffrey,  testified  a  roving  and  dissipated  turn. 

Bold,  licentious,  extravagant,  unprincipled, —  his  career 
soon  outstripped  the  slender  fortunes  of  a  cadet  in  the 
family  of  a  country  squire.  He  was  early  thrown  into 
difficulties,  but  by  some  means  or  other  they  never  seemed 
to  overwhelm  him  ;  an  unexpected  turn  —  a  lucky  adven¬ 
ture —  presented  itself  at  the  very  moment  when  Fortune 
appeared  the  most  utterly  to  have  deserted  him. 

Among  these  more  propitious  fluctuations  in  the  tide 
of  affairs,  was,  at  about  the  age  of  forty,  a  sudden  marriage 
with  a  young  lady  of  what  might  be  termed  (for  Geoffrey 
Lester’s  rank  of  life,  and  the  rational  expenses  of  that 
day)  a  very  competent  and  respectable  fortune.  Unhap¬ 
pily,  however,  the  lady  was  neither  handsome  in  feature 
nor  gentle  in  temper ;  and  after  a  few  years  of  quarrel 


16 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


and  contest,  the  faithless  husband,  one  bright  morning, 
having  collected  in  his  proper  person  whatever  remained 
of  their  fortnne,  absconded  from  the  conjugal  hearth  with¬ 
out  either  warning  or  farewell.  He  left  nothing  to  his 
wife  but  his  house,  his  debts,  and  his  only  child,  a  son. 

From  that  time  to  the  present,  little  had  been  known, 
though  much  had  been  conjectured,  concerning  the  deser¬ 
ter.  For  the  first  few  years  they  traced,  however,  so  far 
of  his  fate  as  to  learn  that  he  had  been  seen  once  in  India  : 
and  that  previously  he  had  been  met  in  England  by  a  rela¬ 
tion  under  the  disguise  of  assumed  names :  a  proof  that 
whatever  his  occupations,  they  could  scarcely  be  very  re¬ 
spectable.  But  of  late,  nothing  whatsoever  relating  to 
the  wanderer  had  transpired.  By  some  he  was  imagined 
dead ;  by  most  he  was  forgotten.  Those  more  immediately 
connected  with  him — his  brother  in  especial,  cherished 
a  secret  belief,  that  wherever  Geoffrey  Lester  should  chance 
to  alight,  the  manner  of  alighting  would  (to  use  the  sig¬ 
nificant  and  homely  metaphor)  be  always  on  his  legs  ;  and 
coupling  the  vaunted  luck  of  the  scape-grace  with  the 
fact  of  his  having  been  seen  in  India,  Roland,  in  his  heart, 
not  only  hoped,  but  fully  expected  that  his  lost  one  would, 
some  day  or  other,  return  home  laden  with  the  spoils  of 
the  East,  and  eager  to  shower  upon  his  relatives,  in  re¬ 
compense  of  long  desertion, 

“With  richest  hand  ....  barbaric  pearl  and  gold.” 

But  we  must  return  to  the  forsaken  spouse. —  Left  in 
this  abrupt  destitution  and  distress,  Mrs.  Lester  had  only 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


1'i 

the  resource  of  applying  to  her  brother-in-law,  whom  in 
deed  the  fugitive  had  before  seized  many  opportunities  of 
not  leaving  wholly  unprepared  for  such  an  application. 

Rowland  promptly  and  generously  obeyed  the  sum¬ 
mons  :  he  took  the  child  and  the  wife  to  his  own  home, — . 
he  freed  the  latter  from  the  persecution  of  all  legal  claim¬ 
ants, — and,  after  selling  such  effects  as  remained,  he  de¬ 
voted  the  whole  proceeds  to  the  forsaken  family,  without 
regarding  his  own  expenses  on  their  behalf,  ill  as  he  was 
able  to  afford  the  luxury  of  that  self-neglect.  The  wife 
did  not  long  need  the  asylum  of  his  hearth, —  she,  poor 
lady,  died  of  a  slow  fever  produced  by  irritation  and  dis¬ 
appointment,  a  few  months  after  Geoffrey’s  desertion. — 
She  had  no  need  to  recommend  her  children  to  their 
kind-hearted  uncle’s  care.  And  now  we  must  glance  over 
the  elder  brother’s  domestic  fortunes. 

In  Roland,  the  wild  dispositions  of  his  brother  were  so 
far  tamed,  that  they  assumed  only  the  character  of  a 
buoyant  temper  and  a  gay  spirit.  He  had  strong  princi¬ 
ples  as  well  as  warm  feelings,  and  a  fine  and  resolute 
sense  of  honor  utterly  impervious  to  attack.  It  was  im¬ 
possible  to  be  in  his  company  an  hour  and  not  see  he  was 
a  man  to  be  respected.  It  was  equally  impossible  to  live 
with  him  a  week  and  not  see  he  was  a  man  to  be  beloved. 
He  also  had  married,  and  about  a  year  after  that  era 
in  the  life  of  his  brother,  but  not  for  the  same  advantage 
of  fortune.  He  had  formed  an  attachment  to  the  por¬ 
tionless  daughter  of  a  man  in  his  own  neighborhood  and 
of  his  own  rank.  He  wooed  and  won  her,  and  for  a  few 
2  *  B 


18 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


years  lie  enjoyed  that  greatest  happiness  which  the  world 
is  capable  of  bestowing  —  the  society  and  the  love  of  one 
in  whom  we  could  wish  for  no  change,  and  beyond  whom 
we  have  no  desire.  But  what  Evil  cannot  corrupt,  Fate 
seldom  spares.  A  few  months  after  the  birth  of  a  second 
daughter,  the  young  wife  of  Roland  Lester  died.  It  was 
to  a  widowed  hearth  that  the  wife  and  child  of  his  brother 
came  for  shelter.  Roland  was  a  man  of  an  affectionate 
and  warm  heart :  if  the  blow  did  not  crush,  at  least  it 
changed  him.  Naturally  of  a  cheerful  and  ardent  dispo¬ 
sition,  his  mood  now  became  soberized  and  sedate.  He 
shrunk  from  the  rural  gaieties  and  companionship  he  had 
before  courted  and  enlivened,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  the  mourner  felt  the  holiness  of  solitude.  As  his 
nephew  and  his  motherless  daughters  grew  up,  they  gave 
an  object  to  his  seclusion  and  a  relief  to  his  reflections. 
He  found  a  pure  and  unfailing  delight  in  watching  the 
growth  of  their  young  minds,  and  guiding  their  differing 
dispositions  ;  and,  as  time  at  length  enabled  them  to  re¬ 
turn  his  affection,  and  appreciate  his  cares,  he  became 
once  more  sensible  that  he  had  a  home. 

The  elder  of  his  daughters,  Madeline,  at  the  time  our 
6tory  opens,  had  attained  the  age  of  eighteen.  She  was 
the  beauty  and  the  boast  of  the  whole  country.  Above 
the  ordinary  height,  her  figure  was  richly  and  exquisitely 
formed.  So  translucently  pure  and  soft  was  her  complexion, 
that  it  might  have  seemed  the  token  of  delicate  health, 
but  for  the  dewy  and  exceeding  redness  of  her  lips,  and 
the  freshness  of  teeth  whiter  than  pearls.  Her  eyes  of  » 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


19 


deep  blue,  wore  a  thoughtful  and  serene  expression,  and 
her  forehead,  higher  and  broader  than  it  usually  is  in 
woman,  gave  promise  of  a  certain  nobleness  of  intellect, 
and  aded  dignity,  but  a  feminine  dignity,  to  the  more  ten¬ 
der  characteristics  of  her  beauty.  And  indeed  the  pecu¬ 
liar  tone  of  Madeline’s  mind  fulfilled  the  indication  of  her 
features,  and  was  eminently  thoughtful  and  high- wrought. 
She  had  early  testified  a  remarkable  love  for  study,  and 
not  only  a  desire  for  knowledge,  but  a  veneration  for 
those  who  possessed  it.  The  remote  corner  of  the  county 
in  which  they  lived,  and  the  rarely  broken  seclusion  which 
Lester  habitually  preserved  from  the  intercourse  of  their 
few  and  scattered  neighbors,  had  naturally  cast  each  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  little  circle  upon  his  or  her  own  resources. 
An  accident,  some  five  years  ago,  had  confined  Madeline 
for  several  weeks  or  rather  months  to  the  house ;  and  as 
the  old  hall  possessed  a  very  respectable  share  of  books, 
she  had  then  matured  and  confirmed  that  love  of  reading 
and  reflection,  which' she  had  at  a  much  earlier  period  pre¬ 
maturely  evinced.  The  woman’s  tendency  to  romance  natu¬ 
rally  tinctured  her  meditations,  and  thus  while  they  digni¬ 
fied,  they  also  softened  her  mind.  Her  sister  Ellinor, 
younger  by  two  years,  was  of  a  character  equally  gentle 
but  less  elevated.  She  looked  up  to  her  sister  as  a  supe¬ 
rior  being.  She  felt  pride  without  a  shadow  of  envy,  at 
her  superior  and  surpassing  beauty ;  and  was  unconsciously 
guided  in  her  pursuits  and  predilections,  by  a  mind  she 
cheerfully  acknowledged  to  be  loftier  than  her  own.  And 
y’et  Ellinor  had  also  her  pretensions  to  personal  loveliness, 


21 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


and  pretensions  perhaps  that  would  be  less  reluctantly  ac 
knowledged  by  her  own  sex  than  those  of  her  sister.  The 
sunlight  of  a  happy  and  innocent  heart  sparkled  on  her 
face,  and  gave  a  beam  it  gladdened  you  to  behold,  to  her 
quick  hazel  eye,  and  a  smile  that  broke  out  upon  a 
thousand  dimples.  She  did  not  possess  the  height  of 
Madeline,  and  though  not  so  slender  as  to  be  curtailed  of 
the  roundness  and  feminine  luxuriance  of  beauty,  liei 
shape  was  slighter,  feebler,  and  less  rich  in  its  symmetry 
than  her  sister’s.  And  this  the  tendency  of  the  physical 
frame  to  require  elsewhere  support,  nor  to  feel  secure  of 
strength,  influenced  perhaps  her  mind,  and  made  love,  and 
the  dependence  of  love,  more  necessary  to  her  than  to  the 
thoughtful  and  lofty  Madeline.  The  latter  might  pass 
through  life,  and  never  see  the  one  to  whom  her  heart 
could  give  itself  away.  But  every  village  might  possess  a 
hero  whom  the  imagination  of  Ellinor  could  clothe  with  un¬ 
real  graces,  and  to  whom  the  lovingness  of  her  disposition 
might  bias  her  affections.  Both,  however,  eminently  pos¬ 
sessed  that  earnestness  and  purity  of  heart,  which  would 
have  made  them,  perhaps  in  an  equal  degree,  constant, 
and  devoted  to  the  object  of  an  attachment,  once  formed 
in  defiance  of  change  and  to  the  brink  of  death. 

Their  cousin  Walter,  Geoffrey  Lester’s  son,  was  now  ir 
his  twenty-first  year ;  tall  and  strong  of  person,  and  with 
a  face,  if  not  regularly  handsome,  striking  enough  to  be 
generally  deemed  so.  High-spirited,  bold,  fiery,  impa¬ 
tient  ;  jealous  of  the  affections  of  those  he  loved  ;  cheerful 
to  outward  seeming,  but  restless,  fond  of  change,  and 


EUGENE  A  R A  M 


21 


subject  to  the  melancholy  and  pining  mood  common  tc 
young  and  ardent  minds  :  such  was  the  character  of  Wal¬ 
ter  Lester.  The  estates  of  Lester  were  settled  in  the 
male  line,  and  devolved  therefore  upon  him.  Yet  there 
were  moments  when  he  keenly  felt  his  orphan  and  deserted 
situation  ;  and  sighed  to  think,  that  while  his  father  per- 
1  aps  yet  lived,  he  was  a  dependant  for  affection,  if  not  for 
maintenance,  on  the  kindness  of  others.  This  reflection 
sometimes  gave  an  air  of  sullenness  or  petulance  to  his 
character,  that  did  not  really  belong  to  it.  For  what  in 
the  world  makes  a  man  of  just  pride  appear  so  unamiable 
as  the  sense  of  dependence  ? 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  PUBLICAN,  A  SINNER,  AND  A  STRANGER. 

“Ah,  Don  Alphonso,  is  it  you?  Agreeable  accident!  —  Chance 
presents  you  to  my  eyes  where  you  were  least  expected.”  — 
Gil  Blas. 

It  was  an  evening  in  the  beginning  of  summer,  and 
Peter  Dealtry  and  the  ci-devant,  corporal  sate  beneath  the 
sign  of  the  Spotted  Dog  (as  it  hung  motionless  from  the 
bough  of  a  friendly  elm)  quaffing  a  cup  of  boon  compan- 
ionshiu  The  reader  will  imagine  the  two  men  very  dif¬ 
ferent  from  each  other  in  form  and  aspect ;  the  one  short, 
dry,  fragile,  and  betraying  a  love  of  ease  in  his  unbuttoned 
rest,  and  a  certain  lolling,  see-sawing  method  of  balane- 
2  *  b 


22 


EUGENE  A  R  A  M. 


ing  his  body  upon  his  chair ;  the  other,  erect  and  solemn, 
and  as  steady  on  his  seat  as  if  he  were  nailed  to  it.  It 
was  a  fine,  tranquil,  balmy  evening;  the  sun  had  just  set, 
and  the  clouds  still  retained  the  rosy  tints  which  they  had 
caught  from  his  parting  ray.  Here  and  there,  at  scattered 
intervals,  you  might  see  the  cottages  peeping  from  the 
trees  around  them  ;  or  mark  the  smoke  that  rose  from 
their  roofs  —  roofs  green  with  mosses  and  house-leek, — 
in  graceful  and  spiral  curls  against  the  clear  soft  air.  It 
was  an  English  scene,  and  the  two  men,  the  dog  at  their 
feet,  (for  Peter  Dealtry  favored  a  wiery  stone  -  colored 
cur  which  he  called  a  terrier,)  and  just  at  the  door  of  the 
little  inn,  two  old  gossips,  loitering  on  the  threshold  in 
familiar  chat  with  the  landlady,  in  cap  and  kerchief, —  all 
together  made  a  group  equally  English,  and  somewhat 
picturesque,  though  homely  enough,  in  effect. 

“Well,  now,”  said  Peter  Dealtry,  as  he  pushed  the 
brown  jug  towards  the  corporal,  “  this  is  what  I  call  pleas¬ 
ant  ;  it  puts  me  in  mind  — ” 

“  Of  what  ?  ”  quoth  the  corporal. 

“  Of  those  nice  lines  in  the  hymn,  Master  Bunting, 

‘  How  fair  ye  are,  ye  little  hills, 

Ye  little  fields  also  ; 

Ye  murmuring  streams  that  sweetly  run  ; 

Ye  willows  in  a  row!’ 

There  is  something  very  comfortable  in  sacred  verses, 
Master  Bunting;  but  you’re  a  scoffer.” 

''  Psha,  man  1”  said  the  corporal,  throwing  out  his  right 
Ifipr  and  leaning  back,  with  his  eyes  half-shut,  and  his  ohm 


E  U  GENE  A  R  A  M  . 


23 


protruded,  as  he  took  an  unusually  long  inhalation  from 
his  pipe  ;  “  Psha,  man  !  —  send  verses  to  the  right-about 
—  fit  for  girls  going  to  school  of  a  Sunday ;  full-grown 
men  more  up  to  snuff.  I’ve  seen  the  world,  Master  Deal- 
try  ;  — the  world,  and  be  damned  to  you  !  — baugh  !  ” 

“  Fie,  neighbor,  fie  !  What’s  the  good  of  profaneness, 
07il  speaking  and  slandering  ?  — 

‘Oaths  are  the  debts  your  spendthrift  soul  must  pay; 

All  scores  are  chalked  against  the  reckoning  day.* 

Just  wait  a  bit,  neighbor  ;  wait  till  I  light  my  pipe.” 

“Tell  you  what,”  said  the  corporal,  after  communicating 
from  his  own  pipe  the  friendly  flame  to  his  comrade’s  ; 
“  tell  you  what  —  talk  nonsense  ;  the  commander-in-chief’s 
no  martinet  —  if  we’re  all  right  in  action,  he’ll  wink  at  a 
slip  word  or  two.  Come,  no  humbug  —  hold  jaw.  D’ye 
think  God  would  sooner  have  a  snivelling  fellow  like  you 
in  his  regiment,  than  a  man  like  me,  clean  limbed,  straight 
as  a  dart,  six  feet  one  without  his  shoes  !  —  baugh  !  ” 

This  notion  of  the  corporal’s,  by  which  he  would  have 
likened  the  dominion  of  Heaven  to  the  King  of  Prussia’s 
body-guard,  and  only  admitted  the  elect  on  account  of 
their  inches,  so  tickled  mine  host’s  fancy  that  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  and  indulged  in  a  long,  dry,  obstreper¬ 
ous  cachinnation.  This  irreverence  mightily  displeased 
the  corporal.  He  looked  at  the  little  man  very  sourly, 
and  said  in  his  least  smooth  accentuation  : — 

“  What  —  devil  —  cackling  at  ?  —  always  grin,  grin, 
grin  —  giggle,  giggle,  giggle  —  psha  !  ” 

“Why  really,  neighbor,”  said  Peter,  composing  him 
self,“  you  must  let  a  man  laugh  now  and  then.” 


24 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Man  1”  said  the  corporal,  “  man’s  a  noble  animal! 
Man ’s  amusquet,  primed,  loaded,  ready  to  supply  a  friend 
or  kill  a  foe  —  charge  not  to  be  wasted  on  every  tom-tit. 
But  you  !  not  a  musquet,  but  a  cracker  !  noisy,  harmless,  — - 
can’t  touch  you  but  olf  you  go,  whizz,  pop,  bang  in  one’s 
'’ace  1  —  baugh  !  ” 

“Well,”  said  the  good-humored  landlord,  “I  should 
think  Master  Aram,  the  great  scholar  who  lives  down  the 
vale  yonder,  a  man  quite  after  your  own  heart.  He  is 
grave  enough  to  suit  you.  He  does  not  laugh  very  easily, 
I  fancy.  ” 

“  After  my  heart  ?  Stoops  like  a  bow  !” 

“  Indeed  he  does  look  on  the  ground  as  he  walks ; 
when  I  think,  I  do  the  same.  But  what  a  marvellous  man 
it  is  1  I  hear,  that  he  reads  the  Psalms  in  Hebrew.  He’s 
very  affable  and  meek-like  for  such  a  schohard.” 

“  Tell  you  what.  Seen  the  world,  Master  Dealtry,  and 
know  a  thing  or  two.  Your  shy  dog  is  always  a  deep 
one.  Give  me  a  man  who  looks  me  in  the  face  as  he 
would  a  cannon  !  ” 

“  Or  a  lass,  ”  said  Peter  knowingly. 

The  grim  corporal  smiled. 

“  Talking  of  lasses,”  said  the  soldier,  re-filling  his  pipe, 
“  what  creature  Miss  Lester  is  !  Such  eyes  !  —  such  nose  ; 
Fit  for  a  colonel,  by  God  !  ay,  or  a  major-general  !  ” 

“  For  my  part,  I  think  Miss  Ellinor  almost  as  handsome  ; 
not  so  grand-like,  but  more  lovesome  !  ” 

“Nice  little  thing  !  ”  said  the  corporal,  condescendingly 
“  But,  zooks  !  whom  have  we  here  ?  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


25 


This  last  question  was  applied  to  a  man  wno  was  slowly 
turning  from  the  road  towards  the  inn.  The  stranger,  for 
such  he  was,  was  stout,  thick-set,  and  of  middle  height. 
His  dress  was  not  without  pretension  to  a  rank  higher 
than  the  lowest ;  but  it  was  threadbare  and  worn,  and 
soiled  with  dust  and  travel.  His  appearance  was  by  no 
means  prepossessing  :  small  sunken  eyes  of  a  light  hazel 
and  a  restless  and  rather  fierce  expression,  a  thick  flat 
nose,  high  cheek-bones,  a  large  bony  jaw,  from  which  the 
flesh  receded,  and  a  bull  throat  indicative  of  great 
strength,  constituted  his  claims  to  personal  attraction. 
The  stately  corporal,  without  moving,  kept  a  vigilant  and 
suspicious  eye  upon  the  new  comer,  muttering  to  Peter, — 
“  Customer  for  you  ;  rum  customer  too  —  by  Gad  !  ” 

The  stranger  now  reached  the  little  table,  and  halting 
short,  took  up  the  brown  jug,  without  ceremony  or  pre¬ 
face,  and  emptied  it  at  a  draught. 

The  corporal  stared  —  the  corporal  frowned;  but  be¬ 
fore  —  for  he  was  somewhat  slow  of  speech  —  he  had  time 
to  vent  his  displeasure,  the  stranger,  wiping  his  mouth 
across  his  sleeve,  said  in  rather  a  civil  and  apologetic 
tone, 

“  I  beg  pardon,  gentlemen.  I  have  had  a  long  march 
of  it,  and  very  tired  I  am.” 

“  Humph  !  march  ”  said  the  corporal,  a  little  appeased, 
“  Not  in  his  Majesty’s  service  —  eh  ?  ” 

“Not  now,”  answered  the  traveller;  then,  turning 
round  to  Dealtry,  he  said  :  “  Are  you  landlord  here  ?  ” 

I  « —  3 


26 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“At  your  service/’  said  Peter,  with  the  indifference  of 
a  man  well  to  do,  and  not  ambitious  of  half-pence. 

“Come  then  quick  —  budge,”  said  the  traveller,  tap¬ 
ping  him  on  the  back:  “bring  more  glasses  —  anothel 
jug  of  the  October  ;  and  any  thing  or  every  thing  your  lar- 
der  is  able  to  produce  —  d’ye  hear  ?  ” 

Peter,  by  no  means  pleased  with  the  briskness  of  this 
address,  eyed  the  dusty  and  way-worn  pedestrian  from 
head  to  foot ;  then  looking  over  his  shoulder  towards  the 
door,  he  said,  as  he  ensconced  himself  yet  more  firmly  on 
Inis  seat  — 

“  There’s  my  wife  by  the  door,  friend  ;  go,  tell  her  what 
70U  want.” 

“Do  you  know,”  said  the  traveller,  in  a  slow  and 
measured  accent — “  Do  you  know,  master  Shrivel-face, 
Jiat  I  have  more  than  half  a  mind  to  break  your  head  for 
mpertinence.  You  a  landlord! — you  keep  an  inn  in¬ 
deed  !  Come,  sir,  make  off,  or — ” 

“  Corporal !  corporal !  ”  cried  Peter,  retreating  hastily 
from  his  seat  as  the  brawny  traveller  approached  mena¬ 
cingly  towards  him  —  “  You  won’t  see  the  peace  broken. 
Have  a  care,  friend  —  have  a  care.  I’m  clerk  to  the  par¬ 
ish —  clerk  to  the  parish,  sir  —  and  I’ll  indict  you  for 
sacrilege.” 

The  wooden  features  of  Bunting  relaxed  into  a  sort  of 
grin  at  the  alarm  of  his  friend.  He  puffed  away,  with¬ 
out  making  any  reply ;  meanwhile  the  traveller,  taking 
advantage  of  Peter’s  hasty  abandonment  of  his  cathedra- 
rian  accommodation,  seized  the  vacant  chair,  and  drawing 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


21 


it  yet  closer  to  the  table,  flung  himself  upon  it,  and  plat¬ 
ing  his  hat  on  the  table,  wiped  his  brows  with  the  air  of 
a  man  about  to  make  himself  thoroughly  at  home. 

Peter  Dealtry  was  assuredly  a  personage  of  a  peace¬ 
able  disposition  ;  but  then  he  had  the  proper  pride  of  a 
host  and  a  clerk.  His  feelings  were  exceedingly  wounded 
at  this  cavalier  treatment  —  before  the  very  eyes  of  his 
wife  too  —  what  an  example  !  He  thrust  his  hands  deep 
into  his  breeches-pockets,  and  strutting  with  a  ferocious 
swagger  towards  the  traveller,  he  said  :  — 

“  Harkye,  sirrah  !  This  is  not  the  way  folks  are  treat¬ 
ed  in  this  country  ;  and  Fd  have  you  to  know,  that  I’m  a 
man  that  has  a  brother  a  constable.” 

“Well,  sir  !  ” 

“  Well,  sir,  indeed  1  Well !  —  sir,  it’s  not  well,  by  no 
manner  of  means  ;  and  if  you  don’t  pay  for  the  ale  you 
drank,  and  go  quietly  about  your  business,  I’ll  have  you 
put  in  the  stocks  for 'a  vagrant.” 

This,  the  most  menacing  speech  Peter  Dealtry  was  ever 
known  to  deliver,  was  uttered  with  so  much  spirit,  that 
the  corporal,  who  had  hitherto  preserved  silence  —  for  he 
was  too  strict  a  disciplinarian  to  thrust  himself  unneces 
sarily  into  brawls, —  turned  approvingly  ronnd,  and  nod 
ding  as  well  as  his  stock  would  suffer  him  at  the  indig¬ 
nant  Peter,  he  said:  “Well  done  !  ’fegs  —  you’ve  a  soul, 
man  !  —  a  soul  fit  for  the  forty-second  !  augh  !  —  A  soul 
nbove  the  inches  of  five  feet,  two  !  ” 

There  was  something  bitter  and  sneering  in  the  travel 
ler’s  aspect  as  he  now,  regarding  Dealtry,  repeated  — 


28 


EUQENE  ARAM. 


“  Vagrant  —  humph  !  And  pray  what  is  a  vagrant  ?  99 

“  What  is  a  vagrant  ?  ”  echoed  Peter,  a  little  puzzled. 

“Yes  1  answer  me  that.” 

“  Why,  a  vagrant  is  a  man  what  wauders,  and  what 
has  no  money.” 

“  Truly,”  said  the  stranger  smiling,  but  the  smile  by  no 
means  improved  his  physiognomy,  “  an  excellent  defini¬ 
tion,  but  one  which  I  will  convince  you,  does  not  apply 
to  me.”  So  saying,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  handful 
of  silver  coins,  and  throwing  them  on  the  table,  added  : 
“  Come,  let’s  have  no  more  of  this.  You  see  I  can  pay  for 
what  I  order ;  and  now,  do  recollect  that  I  am  a  weary 
and  hungry  man.” 

No  sooner  did  Peter  behold  the  money,  than  a  sudden 
placidity  stole  over  his  ruffled  spirit; — nay,  a  certain 
benevolent  commiseration  for  the  fatigue  and  wants  of 
the  traveller  replaced  at  once,  and  as  by  a  spell,  the  an¬ 
gry  feelings  that  had  previously  roused  him. 

“Weary  and  hungry,”  said  he  ;  “  why  did  you  not  say 
that  before  ?  That  would  have  been  quite  enough  for 
Peter  Dealtry.  Thank  God  !  I  am  a  man  that  can  feel 
for  my  neighbors.  I  have  bowels  —  yes,  I  have  bowels. 
Weary  and  hungry  !  —  you  shall  be  served  in  an  instant 
1  may  be  a  little  hasty  or  so,  but  I’m  a  good  Christian  at 
bottom  —  ask  the  corporal.  And  what  says  the  Psalm¬ 
ist,  Psalm  14T  ?  — 

‘  By  Him  the  beasts  that  loosely  range. 

With  timely  food  are  fed : 

He  speaks  the  word  —  and  what  He  wills 
Is  done  as  soon  as  said.’ 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


29 


Animating  his  kindly  emotions  by  this  apt  quotation, 
Peter  turned  to  the  house.  The  corporal  now  broke 
silence :  the  sight  of  the  money  had  not  been  without  an 
effect  upon  him  as  well  as  the  landlord. 

“Warm  day,  sir:  —  your  health.  Oh!  forgot  you 
emptied  jug  —  baugh  !  You  said  you  were  not  now  in 
his  Majesty’s  service  :  beg  pardon  —  were  you  ever  ?  ” 

“Why,  once  I  was  ;  many  years  ago.” 

“  Ah  ! — and  what  regiment  ?  I  was  in  the  forty-second. 
Heard  of  the  forty-second  ?  Colonel’s  name,  Dysart ;  cap¬ 
tain’s  Trotter;  corporal’s  Bunting,  at  your  service.” 

“  I  am  much  obliged  by  your  confidence,”  said  the  tra¬ 
veller  drily.  “I  dare  say  you  have  seen  much  service.” 

“Service!  Ah!  may  well  say  that; — twenty-three 
years’  hard  work :  and  not  the  better  for  it !  A  man 
that  loves  his  country  is  ’titled  to  a  pension  —  that’s  my 
mind  !  —  but  the  world  don’t  smile  upon  corporals  — 
augh  !  ” 

Here  Peter  re-appeared  with  a  fresh  supply  of  the  Oc¬ 
tober,  and  an  assurance  that  the  cold  meat  would  speed - 
fly  follow. 

“  I  hope  yourself  and  this  gentleman  will  bear  me  com¬ 
pany,”  said  the  traveller,  passing  the  jug  to  the  corporal ; 
and  in  a  few  moments,  so  well  pleased  grew  the  trio  with 
each  other,  that  the  sound  of  their  laughter  came  loud 
and  frequent  to  the  ears  of  the  good  housewife  within. 

The  traveller  now  seemed  to  the  corporal  and  mine 
host  a  right  jolly,  good-humored  fellow.  Not,  however, 
that  he  bore  a  fair  share  in  the  conversation  —  he  rather 
3  * 


80 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


promoted  tlie  hilarity  of  his  new  acquaintances  than  led 
it.  He  laughed  heartily  at  Peter’s  jests,  and  the  corpo- 
lal’s  repartees ;  and  the  latter,  by  degrees,  assuming  the 
usual  sway  he  bore  in  the  circles  of  the  village,  contrived^ 
before  the  viands  were  on  the  table,  to  monopolize  the 
whole  conversation. 

The  traveller  found  in  the  repast  a  new  excuse  for  si¬ 
lence.  He  ate  with  a  most  prodigious  and  most  conta¬ 
gious  appetite  ;  and  in  a  few  seconds  the  knife  and  fork 
of  the  corporal  were  as  busily  engaged  as  if  he  had  only 
three  minutes  to  spare  between  a  march  and  a  dinner. 

“  This  is  a  pretty,  retired  spot,”  quoth  the  traveller, 
as  at  length  he  finished  his  repast,  and  threw  himself 
back  on  his  chair — “  a  very  pretty  spot.  Whose  neat 
old-fashioned  house  was  that  I  passed  on  the  green,  with 
the  gable-ends  and  the  flower-plots  in  front. 

“  Oh,  the  Squire’s,”  answered  Peter  ;  “  Squire  Lester’s 
—  an  excellent  gentleman.” 

“  A  rich  man,  I  should  think,  for  these  parts ;  the  best 
house  I  have  seen  for  some  miles,”  said  the  stranger 
carelessly. 

“  Rich  —  yes,  lie’s  well  to  do  ;  he  does  not  live  so  as 
not  to  have  money  to  lay  by.” 

“  Any  family  ?  ” 

“  Two  daughters  and  a  nephew.” 

“  And  the  nephew  does  not  ruin  him.  Happy  uncle  I 
Mine  was  not  so  lucky,”  said  the  traveller. 

“  Sad  fellows  we  soldiers  in  our  young  days  !  ”  observ¬ 
ed  the  corporal  with  a  wink.  “Ho,  Squire  Walter’s  a 
good  young  man,  a  pride  to  his  uncle.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


31 


“  So,”  said  the  pedestrian,  “  they  are  not  forced  to  keep 
up  a  large  establishment  and  ruin  themselves  by  a  retinue 
of  servants? — Corporal,  the  jug.” 

“  Nay  !  ”  said  Peter,  “  Squire  Lester’s  gate  is  always 
open  to  the  poor  ;  but  as  for  show,  he  leaves  that  to  my 
lord  at  the  castle.” 

“  The  castle,  where’s  that  ?  ” 

“  About  six  miles  off, —  you’ve  heard  of  my  Lord  *  *  *  *, 
I’ll  swear.” 

“  Ah,  to  be  sure,  a  courtier.  But  who  else  lives  about 
here  ?  I  mean,  who  are  the  principal  persons  barring  the 
corporal  and  yourself,  Mr.  Eelpry  —  I  think  our  friend 
here  calls  you.” 

“  Dealtry,  Peter  Dealtry,  sir,  is  my  name. — Why  the 
most  noticeable  man,  you  must  know,  is  a  great  scholard, 
a  wonderfully  learned  man  ;  there  yonder,  you  may  just 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  tall  what-d’ye-call-it  he  has  built 
out  on  the  top  of  his  house,  that  he  may  get  nearer  to 
the  stars.  He  has  got  glasses  by  which  I’ve  heard  that 
you  may  see  the  people  in  the  moon  walking  on  their 
heads ;  but  I  can’t  say  as  I  believe  all  I  hear.” 

“You  are  too  sensible  for  that,  I’m  sure.  But  this 
scholar,  I  suppose,  is  not  very  rich  ;  learning  does  not 
clothe  men  now-a-days  —  eh,  corporal  ?  ” 

“  And  why  should  it  ?  Zounds  !  can  it  teach  a  man  how 
to  defend  his  country  ?  Old  England  wants  soldiers,  and 
oe  d — d  to  them  !  But  the  man’s  well  enough,  I  must 
own.  civil,  modest  —  ” 

“  And  not  by  no  means  a  beggar,  ”  added  Peter  j  “  he 


82 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


gave  as  much  to  the  poor  last  winter  as  the  Squire  him¬ 
self  ” 

“  Indeed  1  ”  said  the  stranger,  “  this  scholar  is  rich 
then.” 

“  So,  so  ;  neither  one  nor  t’other.  But  if  he  were  as 
rich  as  my  lord,  he  could  not  be  more  respected  ;  the  great¬ 
est  folks  in  the  country  come  in  their  carriages  and  foul 
to  see  him.  Lord  bless  you,  there  is  not  a  name  more 
talked  on  in  the  whole  country  than  Eugene  Aram.  ” 

“  What !  ”  cried  the  traveller,  his  countenance  chang¬ 
ing  as  he  sprung  from  his  seat ;  “  what !  — Aram  !  —  did 
you  say  Aram  ?  Great  God,  how  strange  !  ” 

Peter,  not  a  little  startled  by  the  abruptness  and  ve¬ 
hemence  of  his  guest,  stared  at  him  with  open  mouth,  and 
e?en  the  corporal  took  his  pipe  involuntarily  from  his  lips. 

“  What  1  ”  said  the  former,  “you  know  him,  do  you  ? 
you’ve  heard  of  him,  eh  ?  ” 

The  stranger  did  not  reply,  he  seemed  lost  in  a  reverie  ; 
he  muttered  inaudible  words  between  his  teeth  ;  now  he 
strode  two  steps  forward,  clenching  his  hands  ;  now  smiled 
grimly  ;  and  then  returning  to  his  seat,  threw  himself  on 
it,  still  in  silence.  The  soldier  and  the  clerk  exchanged 
looks ;  and  now  outspake  the  corporal : 

“  Rum  tantrums  !  What  the  devil,  did  the  man  eat 
your  grandmother  ?  ” 

Roused  perhaps  by  so  pertinent  and  sensible  a  ques¬ 
tion,  the  stranger  lifted  his  head  from  his  breast,  and  said 
with  a  forced  smile,  “  You  have  done  me,  without  know-  * 
ing  it,  a  great  kindness,  my  friend.  Eugene  Aram  was 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


su 

an  early  and  intimate  acquaintance  of  mine  :  we  have  not 
met  for  many  years.  I  never  guessed  that  he  lived  in 
these  parts  :  indeed  I  did  not  know  where  he  resided.  1 
am  truly  glad  to  think  I  have  lighted  upon  him  thus  un¬ 
expectedly.” 

“  What !  you  did  not  know  where  he  lived  ?  Well !  I 
thought  all  the  world  knew  that  1  Why  men  from  the 
universities  have  come  all  the  way,  merely  to  look  at  the 
spot.” 

“  Yery  likely,”  returned  the  stranger ;  “but  I  am  not 
a  learned  man  myself,  and  what  is  celebrity  in  one  set  is 
obscurity  in  another.  Besides,  I  have  never  been  in  this 
part  of  the  world  before  !  ” 

Peter  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  heard  the  shrill 
voice  of  his  wife  behind. 

“  Why  don’t  you  rise,  Mr.  Lazyboots  ?  Where  are 

% 

your  eyes  ?  Don’t  you  see  the  young  ladies  ?  ” 

Dealtry’s  hat  was  off  in  an  instant, —  the  stiff  corporal 
rose  like  a  musquet ;  the  stranger  would  have  kept  his  seat, 
but  Dealtry  gave  him  an  admonitory  tug  by  the  collar ; 
accordingly  he  rose,  muttering  a  hasty  oath,  which  cer¬ 
tainly  died  on  his  lips  when  he  saw  the  cause  which  had 
thus  constrained  him  into  courtesy. 

Through  a  little  gate  close  by  Peter’s  house  Madeline 
and  her  sister  had  just  passed  on  their  evening  walk,  and 
with  the  kind  familiarity  for  which  they  were  both  noted, 
they  had  stopped  to  salute  the  landlady  of  the  Spotted 
Dog,  as  she  now,  her  labors  done,  sat  by  the  threshold, 
svithin  hearing  of  the  convivial  group,  and  plaiting  straw. 


o 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


U 

The  whole  family  of  Lester  were  so  beloved,  that  we 
question  whether  my  lord  himself,  as  the  great  nobleman 
of  the  place  was  always  called,  (as  if  there  was  only  one 
lord  in  the  peerage,)  would  have  obtained  the  same  de¬ 
gree  of  respect  that  was  always  lavished  upon  them. 

“  Don’t  let  us  disturb  you,  good  people,”  said  Ellinor, 
as  the;?  now  moved  towards  the  boon  campanions,  when 
her  eye  falling  on  the  stranger,  she  stopped  short.  There 
was  something  in  his  appearance,  and  especially  in  the 
expression  of  his  countenance  at  that  moment,  which  no 
one  could  have  marked  for  the  first  time  without  appre¬ 
hension  and  mistrust :  and  it  was  so  seldom  that,  in  that 
retired  spot,  the  young  ladies  encountered  even  one  un¬ 
familiar  face,  that  the  effect  the  stranger’s  appearance 
might  have  produced  on  any  one,  might  well  be  increased 
for  them  to  a  startling  and  painful  degree.  The  traveller 
saw  at  once  the  sensation  he  had  created  :  his  brow  low¬ 
ered  ;  and  the  same  unpleasing  smile,  or  rather  sneer,  that 
we  have  noted  before,  distorted  his  lip,  as  he  made  with 
affected  humility  his  obeisance. 

“  How  ! — a  stranger  !  ”  said  Madeline,  sharing,  though 
in  a  less  degree,  the  feelings  of  her  sister  ;  and  then,  after 
a  pause,  she  said,  as  she  glanced  over  his  garb,  “  not  in 
distress  I  hope.” 

“Ho,  Madam!  ”  said  the  stranger,  “if  by  distress  is 
meant  beggary.  I  am  in  all  respects  perhaps  better  than 
I  seem.” 

There  was  a  general  titter  from  the  corporal,  my  host, 
and  his  wife,  at  the  traveller’s  semi-jest  at  his  own  uu- 


EUGENE  ARAM 


35 


prepossessing  appearance :  but  Madeline,  a  little  discon¬ 
certed,  bowed  hastily,  and  drew  her  sister  away. 

“  A  proud  quean  !  ”  said  the  stranger,  as  he  re-seated 
himself,  and  watched  the  sisters  gliding  across  the  green. 

All  mouths  were  opened  against  him  immediately.  lie 
found  it  no  easy  matter  to  make  his  peace  ;  and  before 
he  had  quite  done  it,  he  called  for  his  bill,  and  rose  to 
depart. 

“  Well !  ”  said  he,  as  he  tendered  his  hand  to  the  cor¬ 
poral,  “  we  may  meet  again,  and  enjoy  together  some 
more  of  your  good  stories.  Meanwhile,  which  is  my  way 
to  this  —  this  —  this  famous  scholar’s  —  ehem  ?  ” 

“Why,”  quoth  Peter,  “you  saw  the  direction  in  which 

\ 

the  young  ladies  went ;  you  must  take  the  same.  Cross 
the  stile  you  will  find  at  the  right  —  wind  along  the  foot 
of  the  hill  for  about  three  parts  of  a  mile,  and  you  will 
then  see,  in  the  middle*  of  a  broad  plain,  a  lonely  grey 
house  with  a  thingumebob  at  the  top  ;  a  servatory  they 
call  it.  That’s  Master  Aram’s.” 

“Thank  you.” 

“And  a  very  pretty  walk  it  is  too,”  said  the  dame, 
“the  prettiest  hereabouts  to  my  liking,  till  you  get  to 
the  house  at  least ;  and  so  the  young  ladies  think,  for  it’s 
their  usual  walk  every  evening  !  ” 

“  Humph  !  — then  I  may  meet  them.” 

“Well,  and  if  you  do,  make  yourself  look  as  christian- 
like  as  you  can,”  retorted  the  hostess. 

There  was  a  second  grin  at  the  ill-favored  traveller’s 
expense,  amidst  which  he  went  his  way. 


36 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  All  odd  chap  !  ”  said  Peter,  looking  after  the  sturdy 
form  of  the  traveller.  “  I  wonder  what  he  is  ;  he  seems 
well  edicated  —  makes  use  of  good  words.” 

“  What  sinnifies  ?  ”  said  the  corporal,  who  felt  a  sort 
of  fellow-feeling  for  his  new  acquaintance’s  brusquerie  of 
maimer  ;  —  “  what  sinnifies  what  he  is  ?  Served  his  coun¬ 
try,— that’s  enough  ;  — never  told  me,  by  the  by,  his  regi¬ 
ment ; —  set  me  a  talking,  and  let  out  nothing  himself; 
— old  soldier  every  inch  of  him  !  ” 

“  He  can  take  care  of  number  one,”  said  Peter.  “  IIow 


he  emptied  the  jug  !  and  my  stars  !  what  an  appetite  !  ” 
u  Tush,”  said  the  corporal ;  “  hold  jaw.  Man  of  the 
world  —  man  of  the  world, —  that’s  clear.” 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  DIALOGUE  AND  AN  ALARM. - A  STUDENT’S  HOUSE. 


“  A  fellow  by  the  hand  of  nature  marked, 
Quoted,  and  signed,  to  do  a  deed  of  shame.” 


Shakspeare.  —  King  John. 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


“  He  is  a  scholar,  if  a  man  may  trust 
The  liberal  voice  of  fame  in  her  report. 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


Myself  was  once  a  student,  and  indeed 
Fed  with  the  self-same  humor  he  is  now.” 


Ben  Jonson.  — Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 


The  two  sisters  pursued  their  walk  along  a  scene  which 
might  well  be  favored  by  their  selection.  No  sooner 
had  they  crossed  the  stile,  than  the  village  vanished 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


31 


into  earth  ;  so  quiet,  so  lonely,  so  far  from  the  evidence 
of  life,  was  the  landscape  through  which  they  passed.  On 
their  right,  sloped  a  green  and  silent  hill,  shutting  out  all 
view  beyond  itself,  save  the  deepening  and  twilight  sky  ; 
to  the  left,  and  immediately  along  their  road,  lay  frag¬ 
ments  of  stone,  covered  with  moss,  or  shadowed  by  wild 
shrubs,  that  here  and  there,  gathered  into  copses,  or  break¬ 
ing  abruptly  away  from  the  rich  sod,  left  frequent  spaces 
through  which  you  caught  long  vistas  of  forest-land,  or 
the  brooklet  gliding  in  a  noisy  and  rocky  course,  and 
breaking  into  a  thousand  tiny  waterfalls,  or  mimic  eddies. 
So  secluded  was  the  scene,  and  so  unwitnessing  of  culti¬ 
vation,  that  you  would  not  have  believed  that  a  human 
habitation  could  be  at  hand,  and  this  air  of  perfect  soli¬ 
tude  and  quiet  gave  an  additional  charm  to  the  spot. 

“But  I  assure  you,”  said  Ellinor,  earnestly  continuing 
a  conversation  they  had  begun,  “  I  assure  you  I  was  not 
mistaken  :  I  saw  it  as  plainly  as  I  see  you.” 

“  What,  in  the  breast-pocket  ?  ” 

“Yes,  as  he  drew  out  his  handkerchief,  I  saw  the  bar¬ 
rel  of  the  pistol  quite  distinctly.” 

“  Indeed,  I  think  we  had  better  tell  my  father  as  soon 
as  we  get  home  ;  it  may  be  as  well  to  be  on  our  guard, 
though  robbery,  I  believe,  has  not  been  heard  of  in  Grass- 
dale  for  these  twenty  years.” 

“Yet  for  what  purpose  save  that  of  evil,  could  he  in 
these  peaceable  times,  and  this  peaceable  country,  carry 
fire-arms  about  him  ?  And  what  a  countenance  !  Did 
I.  — 4 


38 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


you  note  the  shy,  and  yet  ferocious  eye,  like  that  of  some 
animal,  that  longs,  yet  fears,  to  spring  upon  you.” 

“Upon  my  word,  Ellinor,  ”  said  Madeline,  smiling, 
“you  are  not  very  merciful  to  strangers.  After  all,  the 
man  might  have  provided  himself  with  the  pistol  which 
you  saw  as  a  natural  precaution  ;  reflect  that,  as  a  stranger, 
he  may  well  not  know  how  safe  this  district  usually  is,  and 
he  may  have  come  from  London,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
which  they  say  robberies  have  been  frequent  of  late.  As 
for  liis  looks,  they  are  I  own  unpardonable  ;  for  so  much 
ugliness  there  can  be  no  excuse.  Had  the  man  been  as 
handsome  as  our  cousin  Walter,  you  would  not  perhaps 
have  been  so  uncharitable  in  your  fears  at  the  pistol.” 

“  Nonsense,  Madeline,”  said  Ellinor,  blushing  and  turn¬ 
ing  away  her  face  ;  — there  was  a  moment’s  pause,  which 
the  younger  sister  broke. 

“We  do  not  seem,”  said  she,  “to  make  much  progress 
in  the  friendship  of  our  singular  neighbor.  I  never  knew 
my  father  court  any  one  so  much  as  he  has  courted  Mr. 
Aram,  and  yet  you  see  how  seldom  he  calls  upon  us  ;  nay, 
I  often  think  that  he  seeks  to  shun  us  ;  no  great  compli¬ 
ment  to  our  attractions,  Madeline.” 

“  I  regret  his  want  of  sociability,  for  his  own  sake,” 
said  Madeline,  “for  he  seems  melancholy  as  well  as 
thoughtful,  and  he  leads  so  secluded  a  life,  that  I  cannot 
but  think  my  father’s  conversation  and  society,  if  he 
would  but  encourage  it,  might  afford  some  relief  to  his 
solitude.” 

“And  he  always  seems,”  observed  Ellinor,  “to  take 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


39 


pleasure  in  my  father’s  conversation*  as  who  would  not  ? 
how  his  countenance  lights  up  when  he  converses  !  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  watch  it.  I  think  him  positively  handsome 
when  he  speaks.” 

“■  Oh,  more  than  handsome  !  ”  said  Madeline,  with  en¬ 
thusiasm,  “  with  that  high  pale  brow,  and  those  deep,  un¬ 
fathomable  eyes !  ” 

Ellinor  smiled,  and  it  was  now  Madeline’s  turn  to 
blush. 

“Well,”  said  the  former,  “there  is  something  about 
him  that  fills  one  with  an  indescribable  interest ;  and  his 
manner,  if  cold  at  times,  is  yet  always  so  gentle.” 

“And  to  hear  him  converse,”  said  Madeline,  “it  is  like 
music.  His  thoughts,  his  very  words,  seem  so  different 
from  the  language  and  ideas  of  others.  What  a  pity  that 
he  should  ever  be  silent !  ” 

“There  is  one  peculiarity  about  his  gloom,  —  it  never 
inspires  one  with  distrust,”  said  Ellinor;  “if  I  had 
observed  him  in  the  same  circumstances  as  that  ill-omened 
traveller,  I  should  have  had  no  apprehension.” 

“  Ah  !  that  traveller  still  runs  in  your  head.  If  we 
were  to  meet  him  in  this  spot !” 

“  Heaven  forbid  !  ”  cried  Ellinor,  turning  hastily  around 
in  alarm  —  and,  lo  !  as  if  her  sister  had  been  a  prophet, 
she  saw  the  very  person  in  question  at  some  little  dis¬ 
tance  behind  them,  and  walking  on  with  rapid  strides. 

She  uttered  a  faint  shriek  of  surprise  and  terror,  and 
Madeline,  looking  back  at  the  sound,  immediately  par¬ 
ticipated  in  her  alarm  The  spot  lcoked  so  desolate  and 


40 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


lonely,  and  the  imagination  of  both  had  been  already  so 
worked  upon  by  Elliuor’s  fears,  and  their  conjectures  re¬ 
specting  the  ill-boding  weapon  she  had  witnessed,  that  a 
thousand  apprehensions  of  outrage  and  murder  crowded 
at  once  upon  the  minds  of  the  two  sisters.  Without,  how¬ 
ever,  giving  vent  in  words  to  their  alarm,  they,  as  by  an 
involuntary  and  simultaneous  suggestion,  quickened  their 
pace,  every  moment  stealing  a  glance  behind,  to  watch 
the  progress  of  the  suspected  robber.  They  thought  that 
he  also  seemed  to  accelerate  his  movements ;  and  this  ob¬ 
servation  increased  their  terror,  and  would  appear  indeed 
to  give  it  a  more  rational  ground.  At  length,  as  by  a 
sudden  turn  of  the  road,  they  lost  sight  of  the  dreaded 
stranger,  their  alarm  suggested  to  them  but  one  resolu¬ 
tion,  and  they  fairly  fled  on  as  fast  as  the  fear  which  ac¬ 
tuated  would  allow  them.  The  nearest,  and  indeed  the 
ouly  house  in  that  direction,  was  Aram’s,  but  they  both 
imagined  if  they  could  come  within  sight  of  that,  they 
should  be  safe.  They  looked  back  at  every  interval ; 
now  they  did  not  see  their  fancied  pursuer  —  now  he 
emerged  into  view  —  now  —  yes  —  he  also  was  running. 

“  Faster,  faster,  Madeline,  for  God’s  sake  !  he  is  gain¬ 
ing  upon  us  !  ”  cried  Ellinor  :  the  path  grew  more  wild, 
and  the  trees  more  thick  and  frequent ;  at  every  cluster 
that  marked  their  progress,  they  saw  the  stranger  closer, 
and  closer  ;  at  length,  a  sudden  break, —  a  sudden  turn 
in  the  landscape  :  —  a  broad  plain  burst  upon  them,  and 
in  the  midst  of  it,  the  student’s  solitary  abode  ! 

“  Thank  God.  we  are  safe  !  ”  cried  Madeline.  She 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


41 


turned  once  more  to  look  for  the  stranger  ;  in  so  doing,  her 
foot  struck  against  a  fragment  of  stone,  and  she  fell  with 
great  violence  to  the  ground.  She  endeavored  to  rise, 
but  found  herself,  at  first,  unable  to  stir  from  the  spot. 
In  this  state  she  looked,  however,  back,  and  saw  the  trav¬ 
eller  at  some  little  distance.  But  he  also  halted,  and  after 
a  moment’s  seeming  deliberation,  turned  aside,  and  was 
lost  among  the  bushes. 

With  great  difficulty  Ellinor  now  assisted  Madeline 
to  rise  ;  her  ancle  was  violently  sprained,  and  she  could 
not  put  her  foot  to  the  ground  ;  bufr  though  she  had 
evinced  so  much  dread  at  the  apparition  of  the  stranger, 
she  now  testified  an  almost  equal  degree  of  fortitude  in 
bearing  pain.  “  I  am  not  much  hurt,  Ellinor,”  she  said, 
faintly  smiling,  to  encourage  her  sister,  who  supported 
her  in  speechless  alarm  :  “  but  what  is  to  be  done  ?  I 
cannot  use  this  foot ;  how  s\aall  we  get  home  ?  ” 

“  Thank  God,  if  you  are  not  much  hurt !  ”  said  poor 
Ellinor  almost  crying,  “  lean  on  me  —  heavier  —  pray. 
Only  try  and  reach  the  house,  and  we  can  then  stay  thero 
till  Mr.  Aram  sends  home  for  the  carriage.” 

“  But  what  will  he  think  ?  how  strange  it  will  seem  !  ” 
said  Madeline,  the  color  once  more  visiting  her  cheek, 
which  a  moment  since  had  been  blanched  as  pale  as  death. 

“Is  this  a  time  for  scruples  and  ceremony  ?  ”  said  Elli¬ 
nor.  “  Come  !  I  entreat  you,  come  ;  if  you  linger  thus, 
the  man  may  take  courage  and  attack  us  yet.  There  I 

i 

that’s  right !  Is  the  pain  very  great  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  mind  the  pain,”  murmured  Madeline  :  “  but 
4  * 


42 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


if  lie  should  think  we  intrude  ?  His  habits  are  so  reserved 

—  so  secluded;  indeed  I  fear  ” 

“  Intrude  !  ”  interrupted  Ellinor.  “  Ho  you  think  so 
ill  of  him  ?  —  Ho  you  suppose  that,  hermit  as  lie  is,  he 
has  lost  common  humanity  ?  But  lean  more  on  me,  dear¬ 
est  ;  you  do  not  know  how  strong  I  am  1 

Thus  alternately  chiding,  caressing,  and  encouraging 
her  sister,  EllinUr  led  on  the  sufferer,  till  they  had  crossed 
the  plain,  though  with  slowness  and  labor,  and  stood 
before  the  porch  of  the  recluse’s  house.  They  had  looked 
back  from  time  to  time,  but  the  cause  of  so  much  alarm 
appeared  no  more.  This  they  deemed  a  sufficient  evidence 
of  the  justice  of  their  apprehensions. 

Madeline  would  even  now  fain  have  detained  her  sister’s 
hand  from  the  bell  that  hung  without  the  porch,  half  im¬ 
bedded  in  ivy  ;  but  Ellinor,  out  of  patience  as  she  well 

might  be _ with  her  sister’s  unseasonable  prudence,  refused 

any  longer  delay.  So  singularly  still  and  solitary  was 
the  plain  around  the  house,  that  the  sound  of  the  bell 
breaking  the  silence,  had  in  it  something  startling,  and 
appeared  in  its  sudden  and  shrill  voice,  a  profanation  to 
the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  spot.  They  did  not  wait  long 
_ a  step  was  heard  within— the  door  was  slowly  unbarred, 

and  the  student  himself  stood  before  them. 

He  was  a  man  who  might,  perhaps,  have  numbered 
some  five  and  thirty  years  ;  but  at  a  hasty  glance,  he 
would  have  seemed  considerably  younger.  He  was  above 
the  ordinary  stature  ;  though  a  gentle,  and  not  ungrace¬ 
ful  bend  in  the  neck  rather  than  the  shoulders,  somewdiat 


/ 


EUGENE  ARAM.  43 

curtailed  his  proper  advantages  of  height.  His  frame 
was  thin  and  slender,  but  well  knit  and  fair  proportioned. 
Nature  had  originally  cast  his  form  in  an  athletic  mould ; 
but  sedentary  habits  and  the  wear  of  mind,  seemed  some¬ 
what  to  have  impaired  her  gifts.  His  cheek  was  pale  and 
dedicate  ;  yet  it  was  rather  the  delicacy  of  thought,  than 
of  weak  health.  His  hair,  which  was  long,  and  of  a  rich 
and  deep  brown,  was  worn,  back  from  his  face  and  tem¬ 
ples,  and  left  a  broad,  high,  majestic  forehead  utterly 
unrelieved  and  bare^  and  on  the  brow  there  was  not  a 
single  wrinkle,  it  was  as  smooth  as  it  might  have  been 
some  fifteen  years  ago.  There  was  a  singular  calmness, 
and,  so  to  speak,  profundity,  of  thought,  eloquent-  upon 
its  clear  expanse,  which  suggested  the  idea  of  one  who 
had  passed  his  life  rather  in  contemplation  than  emotion. 
It  was  a  face  that  a  physiognomist  would  have  loved  to 
look  upon,  so  much  did  it  speak  both  of  the  refinement 
and  the  dignity  of  intellect. 

Such  was  the  person  —  if  pictures  convey  a  faithful 
resemblance  —  of  a  man,  certainly  the  most  eminent  in 
his  day  for  various  and  profound  learning,  and  a  genius 
wholly  self-taught,  yet  never  contented  to  repose  upon 
the  wonderful  stores  it  had  laboriously  accumulated. 

He  now  stood  before  the  two  girls,  silent,  and  evidently 
surprised  ;  and  it  would  scarce  have  been  an  unworthy 
subject  for  a  picture  —  that  ivied  porch  —  that  still  spot 
• — Madeline’s  reclining  and  subdued  form  and  downcast 
eyes  —  the  eager  face  of  Ellinor,  about  to  narrate  the 
nature  and  cause  of  their  intrusion  —  and  the  pale  student 


u 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


himself,  thus  suddenly  aroused  from  his  solitary  medita¬ 
tions,  and  converted  into  the  protector  of  beauty. 

No  sooner  did  Aram  gather  from  Ellinor  the  outline 
of  their  story,  and  of  Madeline’s  accident,  than  his  coun¬ 
tenance  and  manner  testified  the  liveliest  and  most  eager 
sympathy.  Madeline  was  inexpressibly  touched  and  sur¬ 
prised  at  the  kindly  and  respectful  earnestness  with  which 
this  recluse  scholar  —  usually  so  cold  and  abstracted  in 
mood _ assisted  and  led  her  into  the  house  :  the  sympa¬ 

thy  he  expressed  for  her  pain  —  the  sincerity  of  his  tone 
—  the  compassion  of  his  eyes  —  and  as  those  dark  —  and 
to  use  her  own  thought  —  unfathomable  orbs  bent  admir¬ 
ingly  and  yet  so  gently  upon  her,  Madeline,  even  in  spite 
of  her  pain,  felt  an  indescribable,  a  delicious  thrill  at  her 
heart,  which  in  the  presence  of  no  one  else  had  she  ever 
experienced  before. 

Aram  now  summoned  the  only  domestic  his  house 
possessed,  who  appeared  in  the  form  of  an  old  woma.. 
whom  he  seemed  to  have  selected  from  the  whole  neigh¬ 
borhood  as  the  person  most  in  keeping  with  the  rigid 
seclusion  he  preserved.  She  was  exceedingly  deaf,  and 
was  a  proverb  in  the  village  for  her  extreme  taciturnity. 
Poor  old  Margaret  1  she  was  a  widow,  and  had  lost  ten 
children  by  early  deaths.  There  was  a  time  when  her 
gaiety  had  been  as  noticeable  as  her  reserve  was  now. 
In  spite  of  her  infirmity,  she  was  not  slow  in  comprehend¬ 
ing  the  accident  Madeline  had  met  with  ;  and  she  busied 
herself  with  a  promptness  that  showed  her  misfortunes 
had  not  deadened  her  natural  kindness  of  disposition,  in 


» 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


45 


preparing  fomentations  and  bandages  for  the  wounded 
foot. 

Meanwhile  Aram,  haying  no  person  to  send  in  his  stead, 
undertook  to  seek  the  manor-house,  and  bring  back  the 
old  family  coach,  which  had  dozed  inactively  in  its  shelter 
for  the  last  six  months,  to  convey  the  sufferer  home. 

“No,  Mr.  Aram,”  said  Madeline,  coloring,  “pray  do 
not  go  yourself  :  consider,  the  man  may  still  be  loitering 
on  the  road.  He  is  armed  —  good  Heavens,  if  he  should 
meet  you !  ” 

“Fear  not,  madam,”  said  Aram,  with  a  faint  smile.  11 1 
also  keep  arms,  even  in  this  obscure  and  safe  retreat ; 
and  to  satisfy  you,  I  will  not  neglect  to  carry  them  with 
me.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  from  the  wainscoat,  from  which 
they  hung,  a  brace  of  large  horse -pistols,  slung  them 
round  him  by  a  leathern  belt,  and  flinging  over  his  person, 
to  conceal  weapons  so  alarming  to  any  less  dangerous 
passenger  he  might  encounter,  the  long  cloak  then  usually 
worn  in  inclement  seasons,  as  an  outer  garment,  he  turned 
to  depart. 

“But  are  they  loaded  ?”  asked  Ellin  or. 

Aram  answered  briefly,  in  the  affirmative.  It  was  some¬ 
what  singular,  but  the  sisters  did  not  then  remark  it,  that 
a  man  so  peaceable  in  his  pursuits,  and  seemingly  possessed 
of  no  valuables  that  could  tempt  cupidity,  should  in  that 
spot,  where  crime  was  never  heard  of,  use  such  habitual 
precaution. 

When  the  door  closed  upon  him,  and  while  the  old 


46 


EUGENE  A  R A  M  . 


woman  relieved  with  a  light  hand  and  soothing  lotions, 
which  she  had  shown  some  skill  in  preparing,  the  anguish 
of  the  sprain,  Madeline  cast  glances  of  interest  and  curi¬ 
osity,  around  the  apartment  into  which  she  had  had  the 
rare  good  fortune  to  obtain  admittance. 

The  house  had  belonged  to  a  family  of  some  note, 
whose  heirs  had  outstripped  their  fortunes.  It  had  been 
long  deserted  and  uninhabited  ;  and  when  Aram  settled 
in  those  parts,  the  proprietor  was  too  glad  to  get  rid  of 
the  incumbrance  of  an  empty  house,  at  a  nominal  rent. 
The  solitude  of  the  place  had  been  the  main  attraction 
to  Aram  ;  and  as  he  possessed  what  would  be  considered 
a  very  extensive  assortment  of  books,  even  for  a  library 
of  these  days,  he  required  a  larger  apartment  than  he 
would  have  been  able  to  obtain  in  an  abode  more  com- 
^  pact,  and  more  suitable  to  his  fortunes,  and  mode  of  living. 

The  room  in  which  the  sisters  now  found  themselves 
was  the  most  spacious  in  the  house,  and  was  indeed  of 
considerable  dimensions.  It  contained  in  front  one  large 
window,  jutting  from  the  wall.  Opposite  was  an  antique 
and  high  mantel -piece  of  black  oak.  The  rest  of  the 
room  was  walled  from  the  floor  to  the  roof  with  books ; 
volumes  of  all  languages,  and  it  might  almost  be  said, 
without  much  exaggeration,  upon  all  sciences,  were  strewee 
around,  on  the  chairs,  the  tables,  or  the  floor.  By  the 
window  stood  the  student’s  desk,  and  a  large  old-fashioned 
chair  of  oak.  A  few  papers,  filled  with  astronomical  cal¬ 
culations,  lay  on  the  desk,  and  these  were  all  the  witnesses 
of  the  result  of  study.  Indeed  Aram  does  not  appear 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


47 


to  have  been  a  man  much  inclined  to  reproduce  the  learn¬ 
ing  he  acquired; — what  he  wrote  was  in  a  very  small 
proportion  to  what  he  had  read. 

So  high  and  grave  was  the  reputation  he  had  acquired, 
that  the  retreat  and  sanctum  of  so  many  learned  hours 
would  have  been  interesting,  even  to  one  who  could  not 
appreciate  learning ;  but  to  Madeline,  with  her  peculiar 
disposition  and  traits  of  mind,  we  may  readily  conceive 
that  the  room  presented  a  powerful  and  pleasing  charm. 
As  the  elder  sister  looked  round  in  silence,  Ellinor  at¬ 
tempted  to  draw  the  old  woman  into  conversation.  She 
would  fain  have  elicited  some  particulars  of  the  habits  and 
daily  life  of  the  recluse  ;  but  the  deafness  of  their  attend¬ 
ant  was  so  obstinate  and  hopeless,  that  she  was  forced  to 
give  up  the  attempt  in  despair.  “  I  fear,”  said  she  at 
last,  her  good-nature  so  far  overcome  by  impatience  as 
not  to  forbid  a  slight  yawn  ;  “  I  fear  we  shall  have  a  dull 
time  of  it,  till  my  father  arrives.  Just  consider,  the  fat 
black  mares,  never  too  fast,  can  only  creep  along  that 
broken  path,  —  for  road  there  is  none:  it  will  be  quite 
night  before  the  coach  arrives.” 

“I  am  sorry,  dear  Ellinor,  my  awkwardness  should 
occasion  you  so  stupid  an  evening,”  answered  Madeline. 

“  Oh,”  cried  Ellinor,  throwing  her  arms  around  her 
sister’s  neck,  “  it  is  not  for  myself  I  spoke  ;  and  indeed 
I  am  delighted  to  think  we  have  got  into  this  wizard’s 
den.  and  seen  the  instruments  of  his  art.  But  I  do  trust 
Mr.  Aram  will  not  meet  that  terrible  man.” 

“  Nay,”  said  the  prouder  Madeline,  “  he  is  armed,  and 


48 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


it  is  but  one  man.  I  feel  too  high  a  respect  for  him  to 
allow  myself  much  fear.” 

“  But  these  bookmen  are  not  often  heroes,”  remarked 
Ellinor,  laughing. 

“For  shame,”  said  Madeline,  the  color  mounting  to 
her  forehead.  “  Do  you'not  remember  how,  last  summer, 
Eugene  Aram  rescued  dame  Greenfield’s  child  from  the 
bull,  though  at  the  literal  peril  of  his  own  life  ?  And 
who  but  Eugene  Aram,  when  the  floods  in  the  year  before 
swept  along  the  lowlands  by  Fairleigh,  went  day.  after 
day  to  rescue  the  persons  or  even  to  save  the  goods  of 
those  poor  people ;  at  a  time  too,  when  the  boldest  vil¬ 
lagers  would  not  hazard  themselves  across  the  waters  ? 
—  But  bless  me,  Ellinor,  what  is  the  matter?  you  turn 
pale,  you  tremble.” 

“Hush!”  said  Ellinor  under  her  breath,  —  and,  put¬ 
ting  her  finger  to  her  mouth,  she  rose  and  stole  lightly  to 
the  window ;  she  had  observed  the  figure  of  a  man  pass 
by,  and  now,  as  she  gained  the  window,  she  saw  him  halt 
by  the  porch,  and  recognised  the  formidable  stranger. 
Presently  the  bell  sounded,  and  the  old  woman,  familiar 
with  its  shrill  sound,  rose  from  her  kneeling  position 
beside  the  sufferer  to  attend  to  the  summons.  Ellinor 
sprang  forward  and  detained  her  :  the  poor  old  woman 
stared  at  her  in  amazement,  wholly  unable  to  comprehend 
her  abrupt  gestures  and  her  rapid  language.  It  was  writh 
considerable-  difficulty  and  after  repeated  efforts,  that  she 
at  length  impressed  the  dulled  sense  of  the  crone  with 
the  nature  of  their  alarm,  and  the  expediency  of  refusing 


49 


EUGENE  ARAM. 

admittance  to  the  stranger.  Meanwhile,  the  bell  had  rang 
again, —  again,  and  the  third  time  with  prolonged  violence 
which  testified  the  impatience  of  the  applicant.  As  soon 
as  the  good  dame  had  satisfied  herself  as  to  Ellir.or’s 
meaning,  she  could  no  longer  be  accused  of  unreason¬ 
able  taciturnity ;  she  wrung  her  hands,  and  poured  forth 
a  volley  of  lamentations  and  fears,  which  effectually  re¬ 
lieved  Ellinor  from  the  dread  of  her  unheeding  the  admo¬ 
nition.  Satisfied  at  having  done  thus  much,  Ellinor  now 
herself  hastened  to  the  door  and  secured  the  ingress  with 
an  additional  bolt,  and  then,  as  the  thought  flashed  upon 
her,  returned  to  the  old  woman  and  made  her,  with  an 
easier  effort  than  before,  now  that  her  senses  were  sharp¬ 
ened  by  fear,  comprehend  the  necessity  of  securing  the 
back  entrance  also  ;  both  hastened  away  to  effect  this 
precaution,  and  Madeline,  who  herself  desired  Ellinor  to 
accompany  the  old  woman,  was  left  alone.  She  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  window  with  a  strange  sentiment  of  dread 
at  being  thus  left  in  so  helpless  a  situation ;  and  though 
a  door  of  no  ordinary  dimensions  and  doubly  locked  in¬ 
terposed  between  herself  and  the  intruder,  she  expected 
in  breathless  terror,  every  instant,  to  see  the  form  of  the 
ruffian  burst  into  the  apartment.  As  she  thus  sat  and 
looked,  she  shudderingly  saw  the  man,  tired  perhaps  of 
repeating  a  summons  so  ineffectual,  come  to  the  window 
and  look  pryingly  within  :  their  eyes  met;  Madeline  had 
not  the  power  to  shriek.  Would  he  break  through  the 
window  ?  that  was  her  only  idea,  and  it  deprived  her  of 
l.  — 5 


D 


50 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


words,  almost  of  sense.  He  gazed  upon  her  evident  ter¬ 
ror  for  a  moment  with  a  grim  smile  of  contempt ;  he  then 
knocked  at  the  window,  and  his  voice  broke  harshly  on  a 
silence  yet  more  dreadful  than  the  interruption 

“  Ho,  ho  !  so  there  is  some  life  stirring  !  I  beg  pardon, 
madam,  is  Mr.  Aram  —  Eugene  Aram,  within  ?  ” 

“No,”  said  Madeline  faintly,  and  then,  sensible  that 
her  voice  had  not  reached  him,  she  reiterated  the  answer 
in  a  louder  tone.  The  man,  as  if  satisfied,  made  a  rude 
inclination  of  his  head  and  withdrew  from  the  window. 
Ellinor  now  returned,  and  with  difficulty  Madeline  found 
words  to  explain  to  her  what  had  passed.  It  will  be  con¬ 
ceived  that  the  two  young  ladies  watched  the  arrival  of 
their  father  with  no  lukewarm  expectation ;  the  stranger 
however  appeared  no  more  ;  and  in  about  an  hour,  to 
their  inexpressible  joy,  they  heard  the  rumbling  sound  of 
the  old  coach  as  it  rolled  towards  the  house.  This  time 
there  was  nc  delay  in  unbarring  the  door 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


51 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  SOLILOQUY,  AND  THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  RECLUSE.— 
THE  INTERRUPTION. 

“Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour  , 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 

Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 

Or  thrice-great  Hermes,  and  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato.” — ^Milton:  Penseroso. 

As  Aram  assisted  the  beautiful  Madeline  into  the  cai - 
riage —  as  he  listened  to  her  sweet  voice  —  as  he  marked 
the  grateful  expression  of  her  soft  eyes  —  as  he  felt  the 
slight  yet  warm  pressure  of  her  fairy  hand,  that  vague 
sensation  of  delight  which  preludes  love,  for  the  first  time, 
in  his  sterile  and  solitary  life,  agitated  his  breast.  Lester 
held  out  his  hand  to  him  with  a  frank  cordiality  which 
the  scholar  could  not  resist. 

“  Do  not  let  us  be  strangers,  Mr.  Aram,”  said  he  warm¬ 
ly.  “  It  is  not  often  that  I  press  for  companionship  out 
of  my  own  circle  ;  but  in  your  company  I  should  find 
pleasure  as  well  as  instruction.  Let  us  break  the  ice 
boldly,  and  at  once.  Come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow, 
and  Ellinor  shall  sing  to  us  in  the  evening.” 

The  excuse  died  upon  Aram’s  lips.  Another  glance  at 
Madeline  conquered  the  remains  of  his  reserve:  he  ac- 


y  Of  (U-  U& 


52 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


cepted  the  invitation,  and  he  could  not  but  mark,  with  an 
unfamiliar  emotion  of  the  heart,  that  the  eyes  of  Madeline 
sparkled  as  he  did  so. 

With  an  abstracted  air,  and  arms  folded  across  his  breast, 
he  gazed  after  the  carriage  till  the  winding  of  the  valley 
snatched  it  from  his  view.  He  then,  waking  from  his 
reverie  with  a  start,  turned  into  the  house,  and  carefully 
closing  and  barring  the  door,  mounted  with  slow  steps  to 
the  lofty  chamber  with  which,  the  better  to  indulge  his 
astronomical  researches,  he  had  crested  his  lonely  abode. 

It  was  now  night.  The  heavens  broadened  round  him 
in  all  the  loving  yet  august  tranquillity  of  the  season  and 
the  hour  ;  the  stars  bathed  the  living  atmosphere  with  a 
solemn  light ;  and  above  —  about  —  around  — 

“  The  holy  time  was  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration.” 

He  looked  forth  upon  the  deep  and  ineffable  stillness  of 
the  night,  and  indulged  the  reflections  it  suggested. 

“Ye  mystic  lights,”  said  he  soliloquizing: — “worlds 
upon  worlds  —  infinite  —  incalculable.  —  Bright  defiers  of 
rest  and  change,  rolling  for  ever  above  our  petty  sea  of 
mortality,  as,  wave  after  wave,  we  fret  forth  our  little 
life  and  sink  into  the  black  abyss; — can  we  look  upon 
you,  note  your  appointed  order,  and  your  unvarying 
course,  and  not  feel  that  we  are  indeed  the  poorest  pup¬ 
pets  of  an  all-pervading  and  resistless  destiny  ?  Shall 
we  see  throughout  creation  each  marvel  fulfilling  its  pre¬ 
ordered  fate  —  no  wandering  from  its  orbit  —  no  variation 
in  its  seasons  —  and  yet  imagine  that  the  Arch-ordainer 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


53 


will  hold  back  the  tides  he  has  sent  from  their  unseen 
source,  at  our  miserable  bidding  ?  Shall  we  think  that 
our  prayers  can  avert  a  doom  woven  with  the  skein  of 
events  ?  To  change  a  particle  of  our  fate,  might  change 
the  fate  of  millions  1  Shall  the  link  forsake  the  chain, 
and  yet  the  chain  be  unbroken  ?  Away,  then,  with  our 
vague  repinings  and  our  blind  demands.  All  must  walk 
onward  to  their  goal,  be  he  the  wisest  who  looks  not 
one  step  behind.  The  colors  of  our  existence  were  doomed 
before  our  birth  —  our  sorrows  and  our  crimes ;  — millions 
of  ages  back,  when  this  hoary  earth  was  peopled  by 
other  kinds,  yea  !  ere  its  atoms  had  formed  one  layer  of 
its  present  soil,  the  Eternal  and  the  all-seeing  ruler  of 
the  universe,  Destiny,  or  God,  had  here  fixed  the  mo¬ 
ment  of  our  birth  and  the  limits  of  our  career.  —  What 
then  is  crime  ?  —  Fate  !  What  life  ?  — Submission.  ” 

Such  were  the  strange  and  dark  thoughts  which,  con¬ 
stituting  -a  part  indeed  of  his  established  creed,  broke 
over  Aram’s  mind.  He  sought  for  a  fairer  subject  for 
meditation,  and  Madeline  Lester  rose  before  him. 

Eugene  Aram  was  a  man  whose  whole  life  seemed  to 
have  been  one  sacrifice  to  knowledge.  What  is  termed 
pleasure  had  no  attraction  for  him.  —  From  the  mature 
manhood  at  which  he  had  arrived,  he  looked  back  along 
his  youth,  and  recognized  no  youthful  folly.  Love  he 
had  hitherto  regarded  with  a  cold  though  not  an  incuri¬ 
ous  eye  :  intemperance  had  never  lured  him  to  a  moment¬ 
ary  self-abandonment.  Even  the  innocent  relaxations  with 
which  the  austerest  minds  relieve  their  accustomed  toils, 
5* 


84 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


had  had  no  power  to  draw  him  from  his  beloved  researches. 
The  delight  monstrari  digito  ;  the  gratification  of  triumph¬ 
ant  wisdom  ;  the  whispers  of  an  elevated  vanity ;  existed 
not  for  his  self-dependent  and  solitary  heart.  He  was 
one  of  those  earnest  and  high-wrought  enthusiasts  who 
now  are  almost  extinct  upon  earth,  and  whom  romance 
has  not  hitherto  attempted  to  portray;  men  not  uncom¬ 
mon  in  the  last  century,  who  were  devoted  to  knowledge, 
yet  disdainful  of  its  fame ;  who  lived  for  nothing  else  than 
to  learn.  From  store  to  store,  from  treasure  to  treasure, 
they  proceeded  in  exulting  labor,  and  having  accumulated 
all,  they  bestowed  nought ;  they  were  the  arch-misers  of 
the  wealth  of  letters.  Wrapped  in  obscurity,  in  some 
sheltered  nook,  remote  from  the  great  stir  of  men,  they 
passed  a  life  at  once  unprofitable  and  glorious  ;  the  least 
part  of  what  they  ransacked  would  appal  the  industry  of 
a  modern  student,  yet  the  most  superficial  of  modern 
students  might  effect  more  for  mankind.  They  lived 
among  oracles,  but  they  gave  none  forth.  And  yet,  even 
in  this  very  barrenness,  there  seems  something  high  ;  it 
was  a  rare  and  great  spectacle  —  Men,  living  aloof  from 
the  roar  and  strife  of  the  passions  that  raged  below,  de¬ 
voting  themselves  to  the  knowledge  which  is  our  purifica¬ 
tion  and  our  immortality  on  earth,  and  yet  deaf  and  blind 
to  the  allurements  of  the  vanity  which  generally  accom¬ 
panies  research  ;  refusing  the  ignorant  homage  of  their 
kind,  making  their  sublime  motive  their  only  meed,  ador¬ 
ing  Wisdom  for  her  sole  sake,  and  set  apart  in  the  popu¬ 
lous  universe,  like  stars,  luminous  with  their  own  light. 


4 


EUGENE  ARAM.  5L\ 

but  too  remote  from  the  earth  on  which  they  looked,  to 
shed  over  its  inmates  the  lustre  with  which  they  glowed. 

From  his  youth  to  the  present  period,  Aram  had  dwelt 
little  in  cities  though  he  had  visited  many,  yet  he  coiffd 
scarcely  be  called  ignorant  of  mankind;  there  seems  some¬ 
thing  intuitive  in  the  science  which  teaches  us  the  know¬ 
ledge  of  our  race.  Some  men  emerge  from  their  seclusion, 
an  I  find,  all  at  once,  a  power  to  dart  into  the  minds  and 
drag  forth  the  motives  of  those  they  see  ;  it  is  a  sort  of 
second-sight,  born  with  them,  not  acquired.  And  Aram, 
it  may  be,  rendered  yet  more  acute  by  his  profound  and 
habitual  investigations  of  our  metaphysical  frame,  never 
quitted  his  solitude  to  mix  with  others,  without  penetra¬ 
ting  into  the  broad  traits  or  prevalent  infirmities  their 
characters  possessed.  In  this,  indeed,  he  differed  from 
the  scholar  tribe,  and  even  in  abstraction  was  mechanic¬ 
ally  vigilant  and  observant.  Much  in  his  nature  would, 
had  early  circumstances  given  it  a  different  bias,  have  fit¬ 
ted  him  for  worldly  superiority  and  command.  A  resist¬ 
less  energy,  an  unbroken  perseverance,  a  profound  and 
scheming  and  subtle  thought,  a  genius  fertile  in  resources, 
a  tongue  clothed  with  eloquence,  all,  had  his  ambition  so 
chosen,  might  have  given  him  the  same  empire  over  the 
physical,  that  he  had  now  attained  over  the  intellectual 
world.  It  could  not  be  said  that  Aram  wanted  benevo¬ 
lence,  but  it  was  dashed,  and  mixed  with  a  certain  scorn  : 
the  benevolence  was  the  offspring  of  his  nature ;  the  scorn 
seemed  the  result  of  his  pursuits.  He  would  feed  the 
birds  from  his  window,  he  would  tread  aside  to  avoid  the 


56 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


worm  on  his  path  ;  were  one  of  his  own  tribe  in  danger 
he  would  save  him  at  the  hazard  of  his  life  :  —  yet  in  his 
heart  he  despised  men,  and  believed  them  beyond  ameli¬ 
oration.  Unlike  the  present  race  of  schoolmen,  who  in¬ 
cline  to  the  consoling  hope  of  human  perfectibility,  he  saw 
in  the  gloomy  past  but  a  dark  prophecy  of  the  future. 
As  Napoleon  wept  over  one  wounded  soldier  in  the  field 
of  battle,  yet  ordered,  without  emotion,  thousands  to  a 
certain  death ;  so  Aram  would  have  sacrificed  himself  for 
an  individual,  but  would  not  have  sacrificed  a  momentary 
gratification  for  his  race.  And  this  sentiment  towards 
men,  at  once  of  high  disdain  and  profound  despondency, 
was  perhaps  the  cause  why  he  rioted  in  indolence  upon 
his  extraordinary  mental  wealth,  and  could  not  be  per¬ 
suaded  either  to  dazzle  the  world  or  to  serve  it.  But  by 
little  and  little  his  fame  had  broke  forth  from  the  limits 
with  which  he  would  have  walled  it :  a  man  who  had  taught 
himself,  under  singular  difficulties,  nearly  all  the  languages 
of  the  civilized  earth  ;  the  profound  mathematician,  the 
elaborate  antiquarian,  the  abstruse  philologist,  uniting 
with  his  graver  lore  the  more  florid  accomplishments  of 
science,  from  the  scholastic  trifling  of  heraldry  to  the  gen¬ 
tle  learning  of  herbs  and  flowers,  could  scarcely  hope  for 
utter  obscurity  in  that  day  when  all  intellectual  acquire¬ 
ment  was  held  in  high  honor,  and  its  possessors  were 
drawn  together  into  a  sort  of  brotherhood  by  the  fellow¬ 
ship  of  their  pursuits.  And  though  Aram  gave  little  or 
nothing  to  the  world  himself,  he  was  ever  willing  to  com¬ 
municate  to  others  any  benefit  or  honor  derivable  from 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


57 


* 


his  researches.  On  the  alta,r  of  science  he  kindled  nc 
light,  but  the  fragrant  oil  in  the  lamps  of  his  more  pious 
brethen  was  largely  borrowed  from  his  stores.  From  al¬ 
most  every  college  in  Europe  came  to  his  obscure  abode 
letters  of  acknowledgment  or  inquiry  ;  and  few  foreign 
cultivators  of  learning  visited  this  country  without  seek¬ 
ing  an  interview  with  Aram.  He  received  them  with  all 
the  modesty  and  courtesy  that  characterized  his  demeanor ; 
but  it  was  noticeable  that  he  never  allowed  these  inter¬ 
ruptions  to  be  more  than  temporary  :  he  proffered  no  hos¬ 
pitality,  and  shrunk  back  from  all  offers  of  friendship  ; 
the  interview  lasted  its  hour,  and  was  seldom  renewed. 
Patronage  was  not  less  distasteful  to  him  than  sociality. 
Some  occasional  visits  and  condescensions  of  the  great, 
he  had  received  with  a  stern  haughtiness,  rather  than  his 
wonted  and  subdued  urbanity.  The  precise  amount  of 
his  fortune  was  not  known  ;  his  wants  were  so  few,  that 
what  would  have  been  poverty  to  others  might  easily 
have  been  competence  to  him ;  and  the  only  evidence  he 
manifested  of  the  command  of  money,  was  in  his  extended 
and  various  library. 

He  had  now  been  about  two  years  settled  in  his  present 
retreat.  Unsocial  as  he  was,  every  one  in  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  loved  him ;  even  the  reserve  of  a  man  so  eminent, 
arising  as  it  was  supposed  to  do  from  a  painful  modesty, 
had  in  it  something  winning  ;  and  he  had  been  known  to 
evince,  on  great  occasions,  a  charity  and  a  courage  in  the 
service  of  others  which  removed  from  the  seclusion  of 
his  \  abits  the  semblance  of  misanthropy  and  of  avarice, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


bS 

The  peasant  drew  aside  with  a  kindness  mingled  with 
his  respect,  as  in  his  homeward  walk  he  encountered  the 
pale  and  thoughtful  student,  with  the  folded  arms  and 
downcast  eyes,  which  characterized  the  abstraction  of  his 
mood  ;  and  the  village  maiden,  as  she  curtsied  by  him, 
stole  a  glance  at  his  handsome  but  melancholy  counte¬ 
nance  ;  and  told  her  sweetheart  she  was  certain  the  poor 
scholar  had  been  crossed  in  love. 

And  thus  passed  the  student’s  life ;  perhaps  its  monotony 
and  dulness  required  less  compassion  than  they  received; 
no  man  can  judge  of  the  happiness  of  another.  As  the 
moon  plays  upon  the  waves,  and  seems  to  our  eyes  to 
favor  with  a  peculiar  beam  one  long  track  amidst  the 
waters,  leaving  the  rest  in  comparative  obscurity  ;  yet  all 
the  while  she  is  no  niggard  in  her  lustre  —  for  though  the 
rays  that  meet  not  our  eyes  seem  to  us  as  though  they 
were  not,  yet  she  with  an  equal  and  unfavoring  loveli¬ 
ness,  mirrors  herself  on  every  wave :  even  so,  perhaps, 
happiness  falls  with  the  same  brightness  and  power  over 
the  whole  expanse  of  life,  though  to  our  limited  eyes  she 
seems  only  to  rest  on  those  billows  from  which  the  ray  is 
reflected  back  upon  our  sight. 

From  this  contemplation,  of  whatsoever  nature,  Aram 
was  now  aroused  by  a  loud  summons  at  the  door  ;  the 
clock  had  gone  eleven.  Who  could  at  that  late  hour, 
when  the  whole  village  was  buried  in  sleep,  demand  ad¬ 
mittance  ?  He  reecollected  that  Madeline  had  said  the 
stranger  who  had  so  alarmed  them  had  inquired  for  him ; 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


59 


at  that  recollection  his  cheek  suddenly  blanched,  but  again 
that  stranger  was  surely  only  some  poor  traveller  who  had 
heard  of  his  wonted  charity,  and  had  called  to  solicit 
relief,  for  he  had  not  met  the  stranger  on  the  road  to  Les¬ 
ter’s  house  ;  and  he  had  naturally  set  down  the  apprehen¬ 
sions  of  his  fair  visitants  to  a  mere  female  timidity.  Who 
could  this  be  ?  no  humble  wayfarer  would  at  that  hour 
crave  assistance :  some  disaster  perhaps  in  the  village. 
From  his  lofty  chamber  he  looked  forth -*and  saw  the  stars 
watch  quietly  over  the  scattered  cottages  and  the  dark 
foliage  that  slept  breathlessly  around.  All  was  still  as 
death,  but  it  seemed  the  stillness  of  innocence  and  secu¬ 
rity  :  again !  the  bell  again !  He  thought  he  heard  his 
name  shouted  without;  he  strode  once  or  twice  irreso¬ 
lutely  to  and  fro  the  chamber;  and  then  his  step  grew 
firm,  and  his  native  courage  returned.  His  pistols  were 
still  girded  round  him ;  he  looked  to  the  priming,  and 
muttered  some  incoherent  words ;  he  then  descended  the 
stairs,  and  slowly  unbarred  the' door.  Without  the  porch, 
the  moonlight  full  upon  his  harsh  features,  and  sturdy 
frame,  stood  the  ill-omened  traveller. 


» 


60 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

A  DINNER  AT  THE  SQUIRE’S  HALL. - A  CONVERSATION 

BETWEEN  TWO  RETIRED  MEN  WITH  DIFFERENT  OBJECTS 
IN  RETIREMENT. — DISTURBANCE  FIRST  INTRODUCED  INTO 
A  PEACEFUL  FAMILY. 


“Can  he  not  be  sociable?”  —  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

“Subit  quippe  etiam  ipsius  inertim  dulcedo;  et  invisa  primo  desi- 
dia  postremo  amatur.”  —  Tacitus. 

“How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man! 

This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 

I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns.” 

Winter’s  Tale. 

The  next  day,  faithful  to  his  appointment,  Aram  ar¬ 
rived  at  Lester’s.  The  good  squire  received  him  with  a 
warm  cordiality,  and  Madeline  with  a  blush  and  a  smile 
that  ought  to  have  been  more  grateful  to  him  than  ac¬ 
knowledgments.  She  was  still  a  prisoner  to  the  sofa,  but 
in  compliment  to  Aram,  the  sofa  was  wheeled  into  the  hall, 
where  they  dined,  so  that  she  was  not  absent  from  the 
repast.  It  was  a  pleasant  room,  that  old  hall !  Though 
it  was  summer — more  for  cheerfulness  than  warmth,  the 
log  burnt  on  the  spacious  hearth :  but  at  the  same  time 
the  latticed  windows  were  thrown  open,  and  the  fresh  yet 
sunny  air  stole  in,  rich  from  the  embrace  of  the  woodbine 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


61 

and  clematis,  which  clung  lovingly  around  the  casement 
A  few  old  pictures  were  panelled  in  the  oaken  wain¬ 
scot  ;  and  here  and  there  the  horns  of  the  mighty  stag 
adorned  the  walls  and  united  with  the  cheeriness  of  com¬ 
fort,  associations  of  that  of  enterprise.  The  good  old 
board  was  crowded  with  the  luxuries  meet  for  a  country 
squire.  The  speckled  trout,  fresh  from  the  stream,  and 
the  four-year-old  mutton  modestly  disclaiming  its  own  ex¬ 
cellent  merits,  by  affecting  the  shape  and  assuming  the 
adjuncts  of  venison.  Then  for  the  confectionary, —  it  was 
worthy  of  Ellinor,  to  whom  that  department  generally 
fell;  and  we  should  scarcely  be  surprised  to  find,  though 
we  venture  not  to  affirm,  that  its  delicate  fabrication  owed 
more  to  her  than  superintendence.  Then  the  ale,  and  the 
cider,  with  rosemary  in  the  bowl,  were  incomparable 
potations;  and  to  the  gooseberry  wine,  which  would  have 
filled  Mrs.  Primrose  with  envy,  was  added  the  more  gen¬ 
erous  warmth  of  port,  which  in  the  squire’s  younger  days 
had  been  the  talk  of  the  country,  and  which  had  now  lost 
none  of  its  attributes,  save  “the  original  brightness”  of 
its  color. 

But  (the  wine  excepted)  these  various  dainties  met 
with  slight  honor  from  their  abstemious  guest :  and,  for 
though  habitually  reserved  he  was  rarely  gloomy,  they 
remarked  that  he  seemed  unusually  fitful  and  sombre  in 
his  mood.  Something  appeared  to  rest  upon  his  mind, 
from  which,  by  the  excitement  of  wine  and  occasional 
bursts  of  eloquence  more  animated  than  ordinary,  he 
seemed  striving  to  escape ;  and  at  length  he  apparently 
I.  — 6 


62 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


suceeded.  Naturally  enough,  the  conversation  turned  upon 
the  curiosities  and  the  scenery  of  the  country  around  ;  and 
here  Aram  shone  with  a  peculiar  grace.  Vividly  alive  to 
the  influences  of  nature,  and  minutely  acquainted  with  its 
varieties,  he  invested  every  hill  and  glade  to  which  remark 
recurred  with  the  poetry  of  his  descriptions ;  and  from 
his  research  he  gave  even  scenes  the  most  familiar,  a 
charm  and  interest  which  had  been  strange  to  them  till 
then.  To  this  stream  some  romantic  legend  had  once 
attached  itself,  long  forgotten  and  now  revived  ;  that  moor, 
so  barren  to  an  ordinary  eye,  was  yet  productive  of  some 
rare  and  curious  herb,  whose  properties  afforded  scope 
for  lively  description  ;  that  old  mound  was  yet  rife  in  at¬ 
traction  to  one  versed  in  antiquities,  and  able  to  explain 
its  origin,  and  from  such  explanation  deduce  a  thousand 
classic  or  Celtic  episodes. 

No  subject  was  so  homely  or  so  trite  but  the  knowledge 
that  had  neglected  nothing,  was  able  to  render  it  lumin¬ 
ous  and  new.  And  as  he  spoke,  the  scholar’s  countenance 
brightened,  and  his  voice,  at  first  hesitating  and  low,  com¬ 
pelled  the  attention  to  its  earnest  and  winning  music. 
Lester  himself,  a  man  who,  in  his  long  retirement,  had 
not  forgotten  the  attractions  of  intellectual  society,  nor 
even  neglected  a  certain  cultivation  of  intellectual  pur¬ 
suits,  enjoying  a  pleasure  that  he  had  not  experienced 
for  years.  The  gay  Ellinor  was  fascinated  into  admira¬ 
tion  ;  and  Madeline,  the  most  silent  of  the  group,  drank 
in  every  word,  unconscious  of  the  sweet  poison  she  imbibed. 
Walter  alone  seemed  not  carried  away  by  the  eloquence 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


63 


of  their  guest.  He  preserved  an  unadmiring  and  sullen 
demeanor,  and  every  now  and  then  regarded  Aram  with 
looks  of  suspicion  and  dislike.  This  was  more  remark¬ 
able  when  the  men  were  left  alone ;  and  Lester  in  sur¬ 
prise  and  anger,  darted  significant  and  admonitory  looks 
towards  his  nephew,  which  at  length  seemed  to  arouse 
him  into  a  more  hospitable  bearing.  As  the  cool  of  the 
evening  now  came  on,  Lester  proposed  to  Aram  to  enjoy 
it  without,  previous  to  returning  to  the  parlor,  to  which 
the  ladies  had  retired.  Walter  excused  himself  from 
joining  them.  The  host  and  the  guest  accordingly  strolled 
forth  alone. 

“  Your  solitude,”  said  Lester  smiling,  “is  far  deepel 
and  less  broken  than  mine :  do  you  never  find  it  irksome  ?  ” 

“  Can  humanity  be  at  all  times  contented  ?  ”  said  Aram. 
“No  stream,  howsoever  secret  or  subterranean,  glides  on 
in  eternal  tranquillity.” 

“  You  allow,  then,  that  you  feel  some  occasional  desire 
for  a  more  active  and  animated  life  ?  ” 

“  Nay,”  answered  Aram  ;  “  that  is  scarcely  a  fair  corol¬ 
lary  from  my  remark.  I  may,  at  times,  feel  the  weari¬ 
ness  of  existence  —  the  tedium  vitoe ;  but  I  know  well 
that  the  cause  is  not  to  be  remedied  by  a  change  from 
tranquillity  to  agitation.  The  objects  of  the  great  world 
are  to  be  pursued  only  by  the  excitement  of  the  passions. 
The  passions  are  at  once  our  masters  and  our  deceivers  ; 
—  they  urge  us  onward,  yet  present  no  limit  to  our  pro¬ 
gress.  The  farther  we  proceed,  the  more  dim  and  shadowy 
grows  the  goal.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  who  leads  the 


I 


64 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


life  of  the  world,  the  life  of  the  passions,  ever  to  experi 
enee  content.  For  the  life  of  the  passions  is  that  of  a 
perpetual  desire  ;  but  a  state  of  content  is  the  absence 
of  all  desire.  Thus  philosophy  has  become  another  name 
for  mental  quietude  ;  and  all  wisdom  points  to  a  life  of 
intellectual  indifference,  as  the  happiest  that  earth  can 
bestow.” 

“  This  may  be  true  enough,”  said  Lester  reluctantly ; 
“  but  —  ” 

“  But  what  ?  ” 

“A  something  at  our  hearts  —  a  secret  voice  —  an 
involuntary  impulse  —  rebels  against  it,  and  points  to 
action  —  action,  as  the  true  sphere  of  man.” 

A  slight  smile  curled  the  lip  of  the  student ;  he  avoid¬ 
ed,  however,  the  argument,  and  remarked, 

“Yet,  if  you  think  so,  the  world  lies  before  you  :  why 
not  return  to  it  ?  ” 

“  Because  constant  habit  is  stronger  than  occasional 
impulse  ;  and  my  seclusion,  after  all,  has  its  sphere  of 
action  —  has  its  object.” 

“All  seclusion  has.” 

“  All  ?  Scarcely  so  ;  for  me,  I  have  my  object  of  in¬ 
terest  in  my  children.” 

“And  mine  is  in  my  books.” 

“And  engaged  in  your  object,  does  not  the  whisper  of 
fame  ever  animate  you  with  the  desire  to  go  forth  into  the 
world,  and  receive  the  homage  that  would  await  you  ?  ” 

“  Listen  to  me,”  replied  Aram.  “  When  I  was  a  bov, 
I  went  once  to  a  theatre.  The  tragedy  of  Hamlet  was 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


65 


performed  :  a  play  full  of  the  noblest  thoughts,  the  sub* 
tlest  morality,  that  exists  upon  the  stage.  The  audience 
listened  with  attention,  with  admiration,  with  applause. 
I  said  to  myself,  when  the  curtain  fell,  *  It  must  be  a  glo¬ 
rious  thing  to  obtain  this  empire  over  men’s  intellects  and 
emotions.’  But  now  an  Italian  mountebank  appeared  on 
the-  stage, —  a  man  of  extraordinary  personal  strength 
and  sleight  of' hand.  He  performed  a  variety  of  juggling 
tricks,  and  distorted  his  body  into  a  thousand  surprising 
and  unnatural  postures.  The  audience  were  transported 
beyond  themselves  :  if  they  had  felt  delight  in  Hamlet, 
they  glowed  with  rapture  at  the  mountebank  :  they  had 
listened  with  attention  to  the  lofty  thought,  but  they  were 
snatched  from  themselves  by  the  marvel  of  the  strange 
posture.  *  Enough,’  said  I ;  ‘I  correct  mv^  former  notion. 
Where  is  the  glory  of  ruling  men’s  minds,  and  command¬ 
ing  their  admiration,  when  a  greater  enthusiasm  is  excited 
by  mere  bodily  agility,  than  was  kindled  by  the  most  won¬ 
derful  emanations  of  a  genius  little  less  than  divine  ?  ’ 
I  have  never  forgotten  the  impression  of  that  evening.” 

Lester  attempted  to  combat  the  truth  of  the  illustra¬ 
tion,  and  thus  conversing,  they  passed  on  through  the 
village-green,  where  the  gaunt  form  of  Corporal  Bunting 
arrested  their  progress. 

“Beg  pardon,  squire,”  said  he,  with  a  military  salute  ; 
“beg  pardon,  your  honor,”  bowing  to  Aram;  “but  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you,  squire,  ’bout  the  rent  of  the  bit 
cot  yonder  ;  times  very  hard  —  pay  scarce  —  Michaelmas 
dose  at  hand  —  and  —  ” 

I.  — 6* 


E 


66 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  iTou  desire  a  little  delay,  Bunting,  eh  ?  — Well,  well, 
we’ll  see  about  it,  look  up  at  the  hall  to-morrow  ;  Mr. 
Walter,  I  know,  wants  to  consult  you  about  letting  the 
water  from  the  great  pond,  and  you  must  give  us  your 
opinion  of  the  new  brewing.” 

“Thank  your  honor,  thank  you;  much  obliged  I’m 
sure  I  hope  your  honor  liked  the  trout  I  sent  up.  Beg 
pardon,  Master  Aram,  mayhap  you  would  condescend  to 
accept  a  few  fish  now  and  then  ;  they’re  very  fine  in  these 
streams,  as  you  probably  know  ;  if  you  please  to  let  me, 
I’ll  send  some  up  by  the  old  ’oman  to-morrow — that  is,  if 
the  day’s  cloudy  a  bit.” 

The  scholar  thanked  the  good  Bunting,  and  would  have 
proceeded  onward,  but  the  corporal  was  in  a  familiar  mood. 

“Beg  pardon,  beg  pardon,  but  strange-looking  dog 
here  last  evening  —  asked  after  you — said  you  were  old 
friend  of  his  —  trotted  off  in  your  direction  —  hope  all 
was  right,  Master  ?  —  augh  !  ” 

“All  right  1  ”  repeated  Aram,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
corporal,  who  had  concluded  his  speech  with  a  significant 
wink,  and  pausing  a  full  moment  before  he  continued ; 
then,  as  if  satisfied  with  his  survey,  he  added  : 

“  Ay,  ay,  I  know  whom  you  mean  ;  he  had  known  me 
gome  years  ago.  So  you  saw  him  1  What  did  he  say  to 
you  of  me  ?  ” 

“  Augh  !  little  enough,  Master  Aram  :  he  seemed  to 
think  only  of  satisfying  his  own  appetite :  said  he’d  been 
a  soldier.” 


“  A  soldier,  humph  1  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


67 

A 

“Never  told  me  the  regiment  though, —  shy— >  did  he 
ever  desert,  pray,  your  honor  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know  ;  ”  answered  Aram,  turning  away.  “  I 
know  little,  very  little,  about  him  !  ”  He  was  going  away, 
but  stopped  to  add  :  “  The  man  called  on  me  last  night 
for  assistance ;  the  lateness  of  the  hour  a  little  alarmed 
me  I  gave  him  what  I  could  afford,  and  he  has  now 
proceeded  on  his  journey.” 

“  Oh,  then,  he  won’t  take  up  his  quarters  hereabouts, 
your  honor  ?  ”  said  the  corporal,  inquiringly. 

“No,  no;  good  evening.” 

“What !  this  singular  stranger,  who  so  frightened  my 
poor  girls,  is  really  known  to  you,”  said  Lester,  in  sur¬ 
prise  :  “  pray,  is  he  as  formidable  as  he  seemed  to  them  ?  ” 

“Scarcely,”  said  Aram,  writh  great  composure;  “he 
has  been  a  wild  roving  fellow  all  his  life,  but  —  but  there 
is  little  real  harm  in  him.  He  is  certainly  ill-favored 
enough  to  —  ”  here,  interrupting  himself,  and  breaking 
into  a  new  sentence,  Aram  added  ;  “but  at  all  events  he 
will  frighten  your  nieces  no  more  —  he  has  proceeded  on 
his  journey  northward.  And  now  yonder  lies  my  way 
home.  Good  evening.”  The  abruptness  of  this  farewell 
did  indeed  take  Lester  by  surprise. 

“  Why  you  will  not  leave  me  yet  ?  The  young  ladies 
expect  your  return  to  them  for  an  hour  or  so  1  What  will 
they  think  of  such  desertion?  No,  no,  come  back,  my 
good  friend,  and  suffer  me  by  and  by  to  walk  some  part 
of  the  way  home  with  you.” 

“  Pardon  me,”  said  Aram,  “  I  must  leave  you  now 


68 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


As  to  the  ladies,”  he  added  with  a  faint  smile,  half  in 
melancholy,  half  in  scorn,  “  I  am  not  one  whom  they 
could  miss ; — forgive  me  if  I  seem  unceremonious.  Adieu.  ” 

Lester  at  first  felt  a  little  offended,  but  when  he  recalled 
the  peculiar  habits  of  the  scholar,  he  saw  that  the  only 
wav  to  hope  for  a  continuance  of  that  society  which  had 
so  pleased  him,  was  to  indulge  Aram  at  first  in  his  un¬ 
social  inclinations,  rather  than  annoy  him  by  a  troublesome 
hospitality;  he  therefore,  without  further  discourse,  shook 
hands  with  him,  and  they  parted. 

When  Lester  regained  the  little  parlor,  he  found  his 
nephew  sitting  silent  and  discontented,  by  the  window. 
Madeline  had  taken  up  a  book,  and  Ellinor,  in  an  oppo¬ 
site  corner,  was  plying  her  needle  with  an  air  of  earnest¬ 
ness  and  quiet,  very  unlike  her  usual  playful  and  cheerful 
vivacity.  There  was  evidently  a  cloud  over  the  group ; 
the  good  Lester  regarded  them  with  a  searching,  jet 
kindly  eye. 

“  And  what  has  happened  ?  ”  said  he  ;  “  something  of 
mighty  import,  I  am  sure,  or  I  should  have  heard  my 
pretty  Ellinor’s  merry  laugh,  long  before  I  crossed  the 
threshold.” 

Ellinor  colored  and  sighed,  and  worked  faster  than 
ever.  Walter  threw  open  the  window,  and  whistled  a 
favorite  air  quite  out  of  tune.  Lester  smiled,  and  seated 
himself  by  his  nephew. 

“  Well,  Walter,”  said  he,  “  I  feel,  for  the  first  time  these 
ten  years,  I  have  a  right  to  scold  you.  What  on  earth 
;ould  make  you  so  inhospitable  to  your  uncle’s  guest  ? 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


69 

You  eyed  the  poor  student,  as  if  you  wished  him  among  ^ 
the  books  of  Alexandria !  ” 

“  I  would  he  were  burnt  with  them  !  ”  answered  Walter, 
sharply.  “  He  seems  to  have  added  the  black  art  to  his 
other  accomplishments,  and  bewitched  my  fair  cousins  here 
into  a  forgetfulness  of  all  but  himself.” 

“  Not  me  !  ”  said  Ellinor  eagerly,  and  looking  up. 

“No,  not  you,  that’s  true  enough ;  you  are  too  just,  too 
kind ;  — it  is  a  pity  that  Madeline  is  not  more  like  you.” 

“My  dear  Walter,”  said  Madeline,  “what  is  the  mat¬ 
ter  ?  You  accuse  me  of  what  ?  being  attentive  to  a  man 
whom  it  is  impossible  to  hear  without  attention  !  ” 

“There!”  cried  Walter  passionately;  “you  confess 
it ;  and  so  for  a  stranger, —  a  cold,  vain,  pedantic  egotist, 
you  can  shut  your  ears  and  heart  to  those  who  have 
known  and  loved  you  all  your  life  ;  and  —  and — ” 

“Tain!”  interrupted  Madeline,  unheeding  the  latter 
part  of  Walter’s  address. 

Pedantic  !  ”  repeated  her  father. 

“  Yes  !  I  say  vain,  pedantic  !  ”  cried  Walter,  working 
himself  into  a  passion.  “  What  on  earth  but  the  love  of 
display  could  make  him  monopolize  the  whole  conversa¬ 
tion  !  —  What  but  pedantry,  could  make  him  bring  out 
those  anecdotes  and  allusions,  and  descriptions,  or  what¬ 
ever  you  call  them,  respecting  every  old  wall  or  stupid 
plant  in  the  country  ?  ” 

“  I  never  thought  you  guilty  of  meanness  before,”  said 
Lester,  gravely. 

“  Meanness  1  ” 


io 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“Yes!  for  is  it  not  mean  to  be  jealous  of  superior 
acquirements,  instead  of  admiring  them  ?  ” 

“  What  has  been  the  use  of  those  acquirements  ?  Has 
he  benefited  mankind  by  them?  Show  me  the  poet  — 
the  historian — the  orator,  and  I  will  yield  to  none  of  you  ; 
no,  not  to  Madeline  herself,  in  homage  of  their  genius  : 
but  the  mere  creature  of  books  —  the  dry  and  sterile  col¬ 
lector  of  other  men’s  learning  —  no  —  no.  What  should 
I  admire  in  such  a  machine  of  literature,  except  a  waste 
of  perseverance?  —  And  Madeline  calls  him  handsome 
too  l” 

At  this  sudden  turn  from  declamation  to  reproach,  Les¬ 
ter  laughed  outright ;  and  his  nephew,  in  high  anger,  rose 
and  left  the  room. 

“  Who  would  have  thought  Walter  so  foolish  ?  ”  said 
Madeline. 

“Nay,”  observed  Ellinor  gently,  “it  is  the  folly  of  a 
kind  heart,  after  all.  He  feels  sore  at  our  seeming  to 
prefer  another — I  mean  another’s  conversation — to  his  !” 

Lester  turned  round  his  chair,  and  regarded  with  a 
serious  look,  the  faces  of  both  sisters. 

“  My  dear  Ellinor,”  said  he,  after  he  had  finished  his 
survey,  “you  are  a  kind  girl  —  come  and  kiss  me  !” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


71 


CHAPTER  YI. 

TflE  BEHAVIOR  OF  THE  STUDENT.  —  A  SUMMER  SCENE. — 
ARAM’S  CONVERSATION  WITH  WALTER,  AND  SUBSEQUENT 
COLLOQUY  WITH  HIMSELF. 


“  The  soft  season,  the  firmament  serene, 

The  loun  illuminate  air,  and  firth  amene 

The  silver-scalit  fishes  on  the  grete 

O’er-thwart  clear  streams  sprinkillond  for  the  heat,”  &c. 

Gaw-in  Douglas. 

- “Ilia  subter 

Caecum  vulnus  habes  ;  sed  lato  balteus  aur 
Proetegit.”  —  Persius. 

Several  days  elapsed  before  the  family  of  the  manor- 
house  encountered  Aram  again.  The  old  woman  came 
once  or  twice  to  present  the  inquiries  of  her  master  as  to 
Miss  Lester’s  accident :  but  Aram  himself  did  not  appear. 
This  want  of  interest  certainly  offended  Madeline,  although 
she  still  drew  upon  herself  Walter’s  displeasure,  by  dis¬ 
puting  and  resenting  the  unfavorable  strictures  on  the 
scholar,  in  which  that  young  gentleman  delighted  to 
indulge.  By  degrees,  however,  as  the  days  passed  without 
maturing  the  acquaintance  which  Walter  had  disapproved, 
the  youth  relaxed  in  his  attacks,  and  seemed  to  yield  to 
the  remonstrances  of  his  uncle.  Lester  had,  indeed,  con¬ 
ceived  an  especial  inclination  towards  the  recluse.  Anv 


72 


EUGENE  ARAM 


man  of  reflection,  who  has  lived  for  some  time  alone,  and 
who  suddenly  meets  with  one  who  calls  forth  in  him,  and 
without  labor  or  contradiction,  the  thoughts  which  have 
sprung  up  in  his  solitude,  scarcely  felt  in  their  growth, 
will  comprehend  the  new  zest,  the  awakening,  as  it  were, 
of  the  mind,  which  Lester  found  in  the  conversation  of 
Eugene  Aram.  His  solitary  walk  (for  his  nephew  had 
the  separate  pursuits  of  youth)  appeared  to  him  more  dull 
than  before  ;  and  he  longed  to  renew  an  intercourse  which 
had  given  to  the  monotony  of  his  life  both  variety  and 
relief.  He  called  twice  upon  Aram,  but  the  student  was, 
or  affected  to  be,  from  home ;  and  an  invitation  he  sent 
him,  though  couched  in  friendly  terms,  was,  but  with 
great  semblance  of  kindness,  refused. 

“  See,  Walter,”  said  Lester,  disconcerted,  as  he  finished 
reading  the  refusal  —  “see  what  your  rudeness  has  effect¬ 
ed.  I  am  quite  convinced  that  Aram  (evidently  a  man 
of  susceptible  as  well  as  retired  mind)  observed  the  cold¬ 
ness  of  your  manner  towards  him,  and  thus  you  have  de¬ 
prived  me  of  the  only  society  which,  in  this  county  of 
boors'and  savages,  gave  me  any  gratification.” 

Walter  replied  apologeticall}’-,  but  his  uncle  turned  away 
with  a  greater  appearance  of  anger  than  his  placid  fea¬ 
tures  were  wont  to  exhibit ;  and  Walter,  cursing  the  inno¬ 
cent  cause  of  his  uncle’s  displeasure  towards  him,  took  up 
his  fishing-rod  and  went  out  alone,  in  no  happy  or  exhil¬ 
arated  mood. 

It  was  waxing  towards  eve — an  hour  especially  lovely 
in  the  month  of  June,  and  not  without  reason  favored  by 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


73 


the  angler.  Walter  sauntered  across  the  rich  and  fra¬ 
grant  fields,  and  came  soon  into  a  sheltered  valley,  through 
which  the  brooklet  wound  its  shadowy  way.  Along  the 
margin  the  grass  sprang  up  long  and  matted,  and  profuse 
with  a  thousand  weeds  and  flowers  —  the  children  of  the 
teeming  June.  Here  the  ivy-leaved  bell-flower,  and  not 
far  from  it  the  common  enchanter's  night-shade,  the  silver 
weed,  and  water-aven  ;  and  by  the  hedges  that  now  and 
then  neared  the  water,  the  guelder-rose,  and  the  white 
briony,  overrunning  the  thicket  with  its  emerald  leaves, 
and  luxuriant  flowers.  And  here  and  there,  silvering  the 
bushes,  the  elder  offered  its  snowy  tribute  to  the  summer. 
All  the  insect  youth  were  abroad,  with  their  bright  wings 
and  glancing  motion  ;  and  from  the  lower  depths  of  the 
bushes  the  blackbird  darted  across,  or  higher  and  unseen 
the  first  cuckoo  of  the  eve  began  its  continuous  and  mellow 
note.  All  this  cheeriness  and  gloss  of  life,  which  enamour 
us  with  the  few  bright  days  of  the  English  summer,  make 
the  poetry  in  an  angler’s  life,  and  convert  every  idler  at 
heart  into  a  moralist,  and  not  a  gloomy  one,  for  the  time. 

Softened  by  the  quiet  beauty  and  voluptuousness  around 
him,  Walter’s  thoughts  assumed  a  more  gentle  dye,  and 
he  broke  out  into  the  old  lines  : 

“Sweet  day,  so  soft,  so  calm,  so  bright; 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky,”  &c. 

as  he  dipped  his  line  into  the  current,  and  drew  it  across 
the  shadowy  hollows  beneath  the  bank.  The  river-god’s 
were  not,  however,  in  a  favorable  mood,  and  after  waiting 

I  —  7 


74 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


id  vain  for  some  time,  in  a  spot  in  which  he  was  usually 
successful,  he  proceeded  slowly  along  the  margin  of  the 
brooklet,  crushing  the  reeds  at  every  step,  into  that  fresh 
and  delicious  odor,  which  furnished  Bacon  with  one  of 
his  most  beautiful'comparisons. 

He  thought  as  he  proceeded,  that  beneatn  a  tree  that 
overhung  the  waters  in  the  narrowest  part  of  their  chan¬ 
nel,  he  heard  a  voice,  and  as  he  approached  he  recognised 
it  as  Aram’s  ;  a  curve  in  the  stream  brought  him  close 
by  the  spot,  and  he  saw  the  student  half  reclined  beneath 
the  tree,  and  muttering,  but  at  broken  intervals,  to  himself. 

The  words  were  so  scattered,  that  Walter  did  not 
trace  their  clue  ;  but  involuntarily  he  stopped  short,  with¬ 
in  a  few  feet  of  the  soliloquist:  and  Aram,  suddenly  turn¬ 
ing  round,  beheld  him.  A  fierce  and  abrupt  change  broke 
over  the  scholar’s  countenauce  ;  his  cheek  grew  now  pale, 
now  flushed ;  and  his  brows  knit  over  his  flashing  and 
dark  eyes  with  an  intent  anger,  that  was  the  more  with¬ 
ering,  from  its  contrast  to  the  usual  calmness  of  his  fea¬ 
tures.  Walter  drew  back,  but  Aram  stalking  directly 
up  to  him,  gazed  into  his  face  as  if  he  would  read  his 
very  soul. 

“  What !  eaves-dropping  ?  ”  said  he  with  a  ghastly  smile. 
“  You  overheard  me,  did  you  ?  Well,  well,  what  said  I  \ 
—  what  said  I  ?  ”  Then  pausing,  and  noting  that  Walter 
did  not  reply,  he  stamped  his  foot  violently,  and  grinding 
his  teeth,  repeated  in  a  smothered  tone,  “  Boy,  what  said  I?  ” 

“  Mr.  Aram,”  said  Walter,  “you  forget  yourself ;  I  air 
not  one  to  play  the  listener,  more  especially  to  the  learn 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


75 


ed  ravings  of  a  man  who  can  conceal  nothing  I  care  to 
know.  Accident  brought  me  hither.” 

“What!  surely  —  surely  I  spoke  aloud,  did  I  not? — • 
did  I  not  ?  ” 

“You  did,  but  so  incoherently  and  indistinctly,  that  I 
did  not  profit  by  your  indiscretion.  I  cannot  plagiarize, 

I  assure  you,  from  any  scholastic  designs  you  might  have 
been  giving  vent  to.” 

Aram  looked  on  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  breathing 
heavily,  turned  away. 

“  Pardon  me,”  he  said  ;  “  I  am  a  poor  half-crazed  man ; 
much  study  has  unnerved  me  ;  I  should  never  live  but 
with  my  own  thoughts ;  forgive  me,  sir,  I  pray  you.” 

Touched  by  the  sudden  contrition  of  Aram’s  manner, 
Walter  forgot,  not  only  his  present  displeasure,  but  his 
general  dislike  ;  he  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  the  student, 
and  hastened  to  assure  him  of  his  ready  forgiveness.  ** 
Aram  sighed  deeply  as  he  pressed  the  young  man’s  hand, 
and  Walter  saw  with  surprise  and  emotion,  that  his  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears. 

“Ah!”  said  Aram,  gently  shaking  his  head,  “it  is  a 
hard  life  we  bookman  lead.  Not  for  us  is  the  bright  face 
of  noon-day  or  the  smile  of  woman,  the  gay  unbending 
of  the  heart,  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump  ; 
the  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  life.  Our  enjoy¬ 
ments  are  few  and  calm  ;  our  labor  constant ;  but  that  i* 
it  not,  sir?  —  that  is  it  not?  the  body  avenges  its  ow 
neglect.  We  grow  old  before  our  time  ;  we  wither  up ; 
the  sap  of  youth  shrinks  from  our  veins  ;  there  is  no 


76 


F  LMj  E  N  E  A  LI  AM. 


bound  in  our  step.  We  look  about  us  with  dimmed  eves, 
and  our  breath  grows  short  and  thick,  and  pains  and 
coughs,  and  shooting  aches  come  upon  us  at  night ;  it  is 
a  bitter  life  —  a  bitter  life  —  a  joyless  life.  I  would  I 
had  never  commenced  it.  And  yet  the  harsh  wor’d 
scowls  upon  us :  our  nerves  are  broken,  and  they  wonder 
that  we  are  querulous ;  our  blood  curdles,  and  they  ask 
why  we  are  not  gay  :  our  brain  grows  dizzy  and  indistinct 
(as  with  me  just  now,)  and  shrugging  their  shoulders, 
they  whisper  their  neighbors  that  we  are  mad.  I  wish  I 
had  worked  at  the  plough,  and  known  sleep,  and  loved 
mirth  —  and  —  and  not  been  what  I  am.” 

As  the  student  uttered  the  last  sentence,  he  bowed  down 
his  head,  and  a  few  tears  stole  silently  down  his  cheek. 
Walter  was  greatly  affected  —  it  took  him  by  surprise  ; 
nothing  in  Aram’s  ordinary  demeanor  betrayed  any  facil¬ 
ity  to  emotion ;  and  he  conveyed  to  all  the  idea  of  a  man, 
if  not  proud,  at  least  cold. 

“  You  do  not  suffer  bodily  pain,  I  trust  ?  ”  asked  Wal¬ 
ter,  soothingly. 

“  Pain  does  not  conquer  me,”  said  Aram,  slowly  recov¬ 
ering  himself.  “I  am  not  melted  by  that  which  I  would 
fain  despise.  Young  man,  I  wronged  you  —  you  ha?e 
forgiven  me.  Well,  well,  we  will  say  no  more  on  that 
head;  it  is  past  and  pardoned.  Your  uncle  has  been 
kind  to  me,  and  I  have  not  returned  his  advances ;  you 
shall  tell  him  why.  I  have  lived  thirteen  years  by  myself, 
and  I  have  contracted  strange  ways  and  many  humors 
not  common  to  the  world — you  have  seen  an  example  of 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


77 

this.  Judge  for  yourself  if  I  be  fit  for  the  smoothness, 
and  confidence,  and  ease  of  social  intercourse  ;  I  am  not 
fit,  I  feel  it!  I  am  doomed  to  be  alone  —  tell  your  uncle 
this  —  tell  him  to  suffer  me  to  live  so  !  I  am  grateful  for 
his  goodness  —  I  know  his  motives  —  but  have  a  certain 
pride  of  mind  ;  I  cannot  bear  sufferance  —  I  lothe  indul¬ 
gence.  Nay,  interrupt  me  not,  I  beseech  you.  Look 
round  on  nature  —  behold  the  only  company  that  hum¬ 
bles  me  not  —  except  the  dead  whose  souls  speak  to  us 
from  the  immortality  of  books.  These  herbs  at  your 
feet,  I  know  their  secrets  —  I  watch  the  mechanism  of 
their  life;  the  winds  —  they  have  taught  me  their  lan¬ 
guage;  the  stars  —  I  have  unraveled  their  mysteries;  and 
these,  the  creatures  and  ministers  of  God  —  these  I  offend 
not  by  my  mood  —  to  them  I  utter  my  thoughts,  and 
break  forth  into  my  dreams,  without  reserve  and  without 
fear.  But  men  disturb  me  —  I  have  nothing  to  learn 
from  them  —  I  have  no  wish  to  confide  in  them;  they 
cripple  the  wild  liberty  which  has  become  to  me  a  second 
nature.  What  its  shell  is  to  the  tortoise,  solitude  has 
become  to  me  —  my  protection  ;  nay,  my  life  I  ” 

“But,”  said  Walter,  “with  us,  at  least,  you  would  not 
have  to  dread  restraint ;  you  might  come  when  you  would  ; 
be  silent  or  converse  according  to  your  will.” 

Aram  smiled  faintly,  but  made  no  immediate  reply. 

“  So,  you  have  been  angling  !  ”  he  said,  after  a  short 
pause,  and  as  if  willing  to  change  the  thread  of  conver¬ 
sation.  “  Lie  !  It  is  a  treacherous  pursuit ;  it  encour¬ 
ages  man’s  worst  propensities  —  cruelty  and  deceit.” 

7  * 


T8 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  1  should  have  thought  a  lover  of  nature  would  have 
been  more  indulgent  to  a  pastime  which  introduces  us  to 
her  most  quiet  retreats.’1 

“  And  cannot  nature  alone  tempt  you  without  need  of 
rich  allurements  ?  What !  that  crisped  and  winding 
stream,  with  flowers  on  its  every  tide  —  the  water-violet 
and  the  water-lily  —  these  silent  brakes  —  the  cool  of  the 
gathering  evening  —  the  still  and  luxuriance  of  universal 
life  aronnd  you  ;  are  not  these  enough  of  themselves  to 
tempt  you  forth  ?  if  not,  goto — your  excuse  is  hypocrisy.” 

“I  am  used  to  these  scenes,”  replied  Walter;  “I  am 
weary  of  the  thoughts  they  produce  in  me,  and  long  for 
any  diversion  or  excitement.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  young  man  !  The  mind  is  restless  at  your 
age  —  have  a  care.  Perhaps  you  long  to  visit  the  world 
—  to  quit  these  obscure  haunts  w'hich  you  are  fatigued  in 
admiring  ?  ” 

“It  may  be  so,”  said  Walter  with  a  slight  sigh.  “I 
should  at  least  like  to  visit  our  great  capital,  and  note 
the  contrast ;  I  should  come  back,  I  imagine,  with  a 
greater  zest  to  these  scenes.” 

Aram  laughed.  “My  friend,”  said  he,  “when  men 
have  once  plunged  into  the  great  sea  of  human  toil  and 
passion,  they  soon  wash  away  all  love  and  zest  for  inno¬ 
cent  enjoyments.  What  once  was  a  soft  retirement,  will 
become  the  most  intolerable  monotony ;  the  gaming  of 
social  existence  —  the  feverish  and  desperate  chances  of 
honor  and  wealth,  upon  which  the  men  of  cities  set  their 
hearts,  render  all  pursuits  less  exciting,  utterly  insipid  and 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


79 


dull.  The  brook  and  the  angle  —  ha  —  ha  !  —  these  are 
not  occupations  for  men  who  have  once  battled  with  the 
world.  ” 

“I  can  forego  them,  then,  without  regret;”  said  Wal¬ 
ter  with  the  sanguineness  of  his  years.  Aram  looked 
upon  him  wistfully  ;  the  bright  eye,  the  healthy  cheek, 
and  vigorous  frame  of  the  youth,  united  with  his  desire 
to  seek  the  conflict  cf  his  kind,  gave  a  naturalness  to  his 
ambition,  which  was  not  without  interest,  even  to  the 
recluse. 

“  Poor  boy  1  ”  said  he  mournfully,  “  how  gallantly  the 
ship  leaves  the  port ;  how  worn  and  battered  it  will 
return  !  ” 

When  they  parted,  Walter  returned  slowly  nome wards, 
filled  with  pity  towards  the  singular  man  whom  he  had 
seen  so  strangely  overpowered  ;  and  wondering  how  sud¬ 
denly  his  mind  had  lost  its  former  rancor  to  the  student. 
Yet  there  mingled  even  with  these  kindly  feelings,  a  little 
displeasure  at  the  superior  tone  which  Aram  had  uncon¬ 
sciously  adopted  towards  him ;  and  to  which,  from  any 
one,  the  high  spirit  of  the  young  man  was  not  readily 
willing  to  submit. 

Meanwhile,  the  student  continued  his  path  along  the 
watei  side,  and  as,  with  his  gliding  step  and  musing  air, 
he  roamed  onward,  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  a  form 
more  suited  to  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  scene.  Even 
the  wild  birds  seemed  to  feel  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  that  in 
lnm  there  was  no  cause  for  fear  ;  and  did  not  stir  from  the 
turf  that  neighbored  or  the  spray  that  overhung  his  path. 


80 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  So,”  said  he,  soliloquizing,  but  not  without  casting 
frequent  and  jealous  glances  round  him,  and  in  a  murmur 
so  indistinct  as  would  have  been  inaudible  even  to  a  lis¬ 
tener —  “so,  I  was  not  overheard, —  well,  I  must  cure 
myself  of  this  habit ;  our  thoughts,  like  nuns,  ought  not 
to  go  abroad  without  a  veil.  Ay,  this  tone  will  not  be¬ 
tray  me,  I  will  preserve  its  tenor,  for  I  can  scarcely  alto¬ 
gether  renounce  my  sole  confidant  —  self;  and  thought 
seems  more  clear  when  uttered  even  thus.  ’Tis  a  fine 
youth  !  full  of  the  impulse  and  daring  of  his  years  ;  I  was 
never  so  young  at  heart.  I  was  —  nay,  what  matters  it? 
Who  is  answerable  for  his  nature  ?  Who  can  say,  “  I  con¬ 
trolled  all  the  circumstances  which  made  me  what  I  am  ? 7> 
Madeline, —  heavens  !  did  I  bring  on  myself  this  tempta¬ 
tion  ?  Have  I  not  fenced  it  from  me  throughout  all  my 
youth,  when  my  brain  did  at  moments  forsake  me,  and  the 
veins  did  bound  ?  And  now,  when  the  yellow  hastens  on 
the  green  of  life  ;  now,  for  the  first  time,  this  emotion 
—  this  weakness  —  and  for  whom  ?  One  I  have  lived 
with — known — beneath  whose  eyes  I  have  passed  through 
all  the  fine  gradations,  from  liking  to  love,  from  love  to 
passion  ?  No  ;  —  one,  whom  I  have  seen  but  little  ;  who, 
it  is  true,  arrested  my  eye  at  the  first  glance  it  caught  of 
hei  two  years  since,  but  with  whom  till  within  the  last 
few  weeks  I  have  scarcely  spoken  1  Her  voice  rings  on 
my  ear,  her  look  dwell?  on  my  heart ;  when  I  sleep,  she 
is  with  me  ;  when  I  wake,  I  am  haunted  by  her  image. 
Strange,  strange  !  Is  love  then,  after  all,  the  sudden  pas¬ 
sion  which  in  every  age  poetry  has  termed  it,  though  till 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


81 


now  my  reason  has  disbelieved  the  notion  '{  — . 

And  now.  what  is  the  question  ?  To  resist  or  to  yield.  Her 
father  invites  me,  courts  me;  and  I  stand  aloof!  Will 
this  strength,  this  forbearance,  last !  —  Shall  I  encourage 
my  mind  to  this  decision  ?  ”  Here  Aram  paused  abruptly, 
and  then  renewed  :  “  It  is  true !  I  ought  to  weave  my 
lot  with  none.  Memory  sets  me  apart  and  alone  in  the 
world  ;  it  seems  unnatural  to  me,  a  thought  of  dread  —  to 
bring  another  being  to  my  solitude,  to  set  an  everlasting 
watch  on  my  uprisings  and  my  downsittings ;  to  invite 
eyes  to  my  face  when  I  sleep  at  nights,  and  ears  to  every 
word  that  may  start  unbidden  from  my  lips.  But  if  the 
watch  be  the  watch  of  love  —  away  !  does  love  endure 
for  ever  ?  He  who  trusts  to  woman,  trusts  to  the  type 
of  change.  Affection  may  turn  to  hatred,  fondness  to 
loathing,  anxiety  to  dread  ;  and,  at  the  best,  woman  is 
weak,  she  is  the  minion  to  her  impulses.  Enough  :  I  will 
steel  my  soul, —  shut  up  the  avenues  of  sense, —  brand 
with  the  scathing-iron  these  yet  green  and  soft  emotions 
of  lingering  youth, —  and  freeze  and  chain  and  curdle  up 
feeing,  and  heart  and  manhood,  into  ice  and  age  1  w 


F 


82 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  YI1 . 

THE  POWER  OF  LOYE  OYER  THE  RESOLUTION  OF  THE 
STUDENT. —  ARAM  BECOMES  A  FREQUENT  GUEST  AT  THE 

MANOR-HOUSE. — A  WALK. - CONVERSATION  WITH  DAME 

DARKMANS. - HER  HISTORY. — POVERTY  AND  ITS  EFFECTS. 


“Mad.  Then,  as  time  won  thee  frequent  to  our  hearth, 
Didst  thou  not  breathe,  like  dreams,  into  my  soul 
Nature’s  more  gentle  secrets,  the  sweet  lore 
Of  the  green  herb  and  the  bee-worshipp’d  flower? 

And  when  deep  Night  did  o’er  the  nether  earth 
Diffuse  meek  quiet,  and  the  heart  of  heaven 
With  love  grew  breathless  —  didst  thou  not  unroll 
The  volume  of  the  weird  Chaldean  stars, 

And  of  the  winds,  the  clouds,  the  invisible  air, 

Make  eloquent  discourse,  until,  methought, 

No  human  lip,  but  some  diviner  spirit 

Alone,  could  preach  such  truths  of  things  divine? 

And  so  —  and  so  —  ” 

“Aram.  From  Heaven  we  turned  to  Earth, 

And  Wisdom  fathered  Passion.” 

*  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  * 

“Aram.  Wise  men  have  praised  the  Peasant’s  thought¬ 

less  lot, 

And  learned  Pride  hath  envied  humble  Toil; 

If  they  were  right,  why  let  us  burn  our  books, 

And  sit  us  down,  and  play  the  fool  with  Time, 

Mocking  the  prophet  Wisdom’s  high  decrees, 

And  walling  this  trite  Present  with  dark  clouds, 

’Till  Night  becomes  our  Nature;  and  the  ray 

1 * 


ETTGENE  ARAM. 


83 


Ev’n  of  the  stars,  but  meteors  that  Avitkdraw 
The  wandering  spirit  from  the  sluggish  rest 
Which  makes  its  proper  bliss.  1  will  accost 

This  denizen  of  toil.” 

From  Eugene  Aram ,  a  MS.  Tragedy. 

“  A  wicked  hag,  and  envy’s  self  excelling 
In  mischiefe,  for  herself  she  only  vext. 

But  this  same,  both  herself  and  others  eke  perplext.” 

*  *  *  *  * 

“  Who  then  can  strive  with  strong  necessity, 

That  holds  the  world  in  his  still  changing  state,  &c.  &c. 
Then  do  no  further  go,  no  further  stray, 

But  here  lie  down,  and  to  thy  rest  betake.”  —  Spenser. 

Few  men  perhaps  could  boast  of  so  masculine  and  firm 
a  mind,  as,  despite  his  eccentricities,  Aram  assuredly  pos¬ 
sessed.  His  habits  of  solitude  had  strengthened  his  natu¬ 
ral  hardihood  ;  for,  accustomed  to  make  all  the  sources 
of  happiness  flow  solely  from  himself,  his  thoughts  the 
only  companion  —  his  genius  the  only  vivifier —  of  his 
retreat ;  the  tone  and  faculty  of  his  spirit  could  not  but 
assume  that  austere  and  vigorous  energy  which  the  habit 
of  self-dependence  almost  invariably  produces ;  and  yet, 
the  reader,  if  he  be  young,  will  scarcely  feel  surprise  that 
the  resolution  of  the  student,  to  battle  against  incipient 
love,  from  whatever  reasons  it  might  be  formed,  gradually 
and  reluctantly  melted  away.  It  may  be  noted,  that  the 
enthusiasts  of  learning  and  reverie  have,  at  one  time  or 
another  in  their  lives,  been,  of  all  the  tribes  of  men,  the 
most  keenly  susceptible  to  love  ;  their  solitude  feeds  their 
passion  ;  and  deprived,  as  they  usually  are,  of  the  more 
hurried  and  vehement  occupations  of  life,  when  love  is 
once  admitted  to  their  hearts,  there  is  no  counter-check 


84 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


to  its  emotions,  and  no  escape  from  its  excitation.  Aram, 
too,  had  just  arrived  at  that  age  when  a  man  usually 
‘'eels  a  sort  of  revulsion  in  the  current  of  his  desires.  At 
that  age,  those  who  have  hitherto  pursued  love,  begin  to 
grow  alive  to  ambition  ;  those  who  have  been  slaves  to 
the  pleasures  of  life,  awaken  from  the  dream,  and  direct 
their  desires  to  its  interests.  And  in  the  same  proportion, 
they  who  till  then  have  wasted  the  prodigal  fervors  of 
youth  upon  a  sterile  soil ;  who  have  served  ambition,  or, 
like  Aram,  devoted  their  hearts  to  wisdom  ;  relax  from 
their  ardor,  look  back  on  the  departed  years  with  regret, 
and  commence  in  their  manhood,  the  fiery  pleasures  and 
delirious  follies  which  are  only  pardonable  in  youth.  In 
short,  as  in  every  human  pursuit  there  is  a  certain  vanity, 
and  as  every  acquisition  contains  within  itself  the  seed 
of  disappointment,  so  there  is  a  period  of  life  when  we 
pause  from  the  pursuit,  and  are  discontented  with  the 
acquisition.  We  then  look  around  us  for  something  new 
—  again  follow  —  and  are  again  deceived.  Few  men 
throughout  life  are  the  servants  of  one  desire.  When 
we  gain  the  middle  of  the  bridge  of  our  mortality,  differ¬ 
ent  objects  from  those  which  attracted  us  upward  almost 
invariably  lure  us  to  the  descent.  Happy  they  who  ex¬ 
haust  in  the  former  part  of  the  journey  all  the  foibles  of 
existence  1  But  how  different  is  the  crude  and  evanes¬ 
cent  love  of  that  age  when  thought  has  not  given  inten¬ 
sity  and  power  to  the  passions,  from  the  love  which  is  felt, 
felt  for  the  first  time ,  in  maturer  but  still  youthful  years  1 
As  the  flame  burns  the  brighter  in  proportion  to  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


8b 


resistance  whinh  it  conquers,  this  later  love  is  the  more 
glowing  in  proportion  to  the  length  of  time  in  which  it 
has  overcome  temptation  :  all  the  solid  and  concentred 
faculties  ripened  to  their  full  height,  are  no  longer  capa- 
ble  of  the  infinite  distractions,  the  numberless  caprices 
of  youth  ;  the  rays  of  the  heart,  not  rendered  weak  by 
diversion,  collect  into  one  burning  focus;*  the  same 
earnestness  and  unity  of  purpose  which  render  what  we 
undertake  in  manhood  so  far  more  successful  than  what 
we  would  effect  in  youth,  are  equally  visible  and  equally 
triumphant,  whether  directed  to  interest  or  to  love.  But 
then,  as  in  Aram,  the  feelings  must  be  fresh  as  well  as 
matured  ;  they  must  not  have  been  frittered  away  by  pre¬ 
vious  indulgence  ;  the  love  must  be  the  first  product  of 
the  soil,  not  the  languid  after-growth. 

The  reader  will  remark,  that  the  first  time  in  which  our 
narrative  has  brought  Madeline  and  Aram  together,  was 
not  the  first  time  they  had  met ;  Aram  had  long  noted 
with  admiration  a  beauty  which  he  had  never  seen  paral- 
leled,  and  certain  vague  and  unsettled  feelings  had  pre¬ 
luded  the  deeper  emotion  which  her  image  now  excited 
within  him.  But  the  main  cause  of  his  present  and  grow¬ 
ing  attachment,  had  been  in  the  evident  sentiment  of 
kindness  which  he  could  not  but  feel  Madeline  bore  to¬ 
wards  him.  So  retiring  a  nature  as  his,  might  never 
have  harbored  love,  if  the  love  bore  the  character  of  pre- 

*  Love  is  of  the  nature  of  a  burning-glass,  which,  kept  still  in  one 
place,  fireth  ;  changed  often,  it  does  nothing!” — Letters  by  S'* 
John  Suckling. 

I.  — 8 


36 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


gumption  ;  but  that  one  so  beautiful  beyond  his  dreams 
as  Madeline  Lester,  should  deign  to  exercise  towards  him 
a  tenderness,  that  might  suffer  him  to  hope,  was  a  thought, 
that  when  he  caught  her  eye  unconsciously  fixed  upon  him, 
and  noted  that  her  voice  grew  softer  and  more  tremulous 
when  she  addressed  him,  forced  itself  upon  his  heart,  and 
woke  there  a  strange  and  irresistible  emotion,  which  soli* 
tude  and  the  brooding  reflection  that  solitude  produces — a 
reflection  so  much  more  intense  in  proportion  to  the 
paucity  of  living  images  it  dwelt  upon — soon  ripened  into 
love.  Perhaps  even,  he  would  not  have  resisted  the  im¬ 
pulse  as  he  now  did,  had  not  at  this  time  certain  thoughts 
connected  with  past  events,  been  more  forcibly  than  of 
late  years  obtruded  upon  him,  and  thus  in  some  measure 
divided  his  heart.  By  degrees,  however,  those  thoughts 
receeded  from  their  vividness,  into  the  habitual  deep, 
but  not  oblivious,  shade  beneath  which  his  commanding 
mind  had  formerly  driven  them  to  repose ;  and  as  they 
thus  receded,  Madeline’s  image  grew  more  undisturbedly 
present,  and  his  resolution  to  avoid  its  power  more  fluc¬ 
tuating  and  feeble.  Fate  seemed  bent  upon  bringing 
together  these  two  persons,  already  so  attracted  towards 
each  other.  After  the  conversation  recorded  in  our  last 
chapter  between  Walter  and  the  student,  the  former, 
touched  and  softened  as  we  have  seen,  in  spite  of  himself, 
had  cheerfully  forborne  (what  before  he  had  done  reluc¬ 
tantly)  the  expression  of  dislike  which  he  had  once  lav¬ 
ished  so  profusely  upon  Aram.  And  Lester,  who,  for* 
ward  as  had  seemed,  had  nevertheless  been  hitherto  a 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


87 


little  checked  in  his  advances  to  his  neighbor  by  the  hos¬ 
tility  of  his  nephew,  now  felt  no  scruple  to  deter  him  from 
urging  them  with  a  pertinacity  .that  almost  forbade  re¬ 
fusal.  It  was  Aram’s  constant  habit,  in  all  seasons,  to 
wander  abroad  at  certain  times  of  the  day,  especially 
towards  the  evening  :  and  if  Lester  failed  to  win  entrance 
to  his  house,  he  was  thus  enabled  to  meet  the  student  in 
his  frequent  rambles,  and  with  a  seeming  freedom  from 
design.  Actuated  by  his  great  benevolence  of  charac¬ 
ter,  Lester  earnestly  desired  to  win  his  solitary  and  un¬ 
friended  neighbor  from  a  mood  and  habit  which  he  na¬ 
turally  imagined  must  engender  a  growing  melancholy  of 
mind ;  and  since  Walter  had  detailed  to  him  the  partic¬ 
ulars  of  his  meeting  with  Aram,  this  desire  had  been 
considerably  increased.  There  is  not  perhaps  a  stronger 
feeling  in  the  world  than  pity,  when  united  with  admira¬ 
tion.  When  one  man  is  resolved  to  know  another,  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  prevent  him :  we  see  daily  the  most 
remarkable  instances  of  perseverance  on  one  side  con¬ 
quering  distaste  on  the  other.  By  degrees,  then,  Aram 

relaxed  from  his  unsociability ;  he  seemed  to  surrender 

/ 

himself  to  a  kindness,  the  sincerity  of  which  he  was  com¬ 
pelled  to  acknowledge  ;  if  he  for  a  long  time  refused  to 
accept  the  hospitality  of  his  neighbor,  he  did  not  reject 
his  society  when  they  met,  and  this  intercourse  by  little 
and  little  progressed,  until  ultimately  the  recluse  yielded 
to  solicitation,  and  became  the  guest  as  well  as  companion. 
This,  at  first  accident,  grew,  though  not  without  many 
interruptions,  into  habit ;  and  at  length  few  evenings  were 


83 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


past  by  the  inmates  of  the  manor-house  without  the  so* 
ciety  of  the  student. 

As  his  reserve  wore  off,  his  conversation  mingled  with 
its  attractions  a  tender  and  affectionate  tone.  He  seemed 
grateful  for  the  pains  which  had  been  taken  to  allure  him 
to  a  scene  in  which,  at  last,  he  acknowledged  he  found  a 
hapj  iness  that  he  never  experienced  before  :  and  those 
who  had  hitherto  admired  him  for  his  genius,  admired 
him  now  yet  more  for  his  susceptibility  to  the  affections. 

There  was  not  in  Aram,  any  thing  that  savored  of  the 
harshness  of  pedantry,  or  the  petty  vanities  of  dogmatism  : 
his  voice  was  soft  and  low,  and  his  manner  always  remark¬ 
able 'for  its  singular  gentleness,  and  a  certain  dignified 
humility.  His  language  did  indeed,  at  times,  assume  a 
tone  of  calm  and  patriarchal  command ;  but  it  was  only 
the  command  arising  from  an  intimate  persuasion  of  the 
truth  of  what  he  uttered.  Moralizing  upon  our  nature, 
or  mourning  over  the  delusions  of  the  world,  a  grave  and 
solemn  strain  breathed  throughout  his  lofty  words  and 
the  profound  melanchbly  of  his  wisdom;  but  it  touched, 
not  offended  —  elevated,  not  humbled  —  the  lesser  intel¬ 
lect  of  his  listeners  ;  and  even  this  air  of  unconscious  supe¬ 
riority  vanished  when  he  was  invited  to  teach  or  explain. 

That  task  which  so  few  do  gracefully,  that  an  accurate 
and  shrewd  thinker  has  said  ;  “  It  is  always  safe  to  learn, 
even  from  our  enemies ;  seldom  safe  to  instruct  even  our 
friends,”*  Aram  performed  with  a  meekness  and  sim¬ 
plicity  that  charmed  the  vanity,  even  while  it  corrected 


*  Lacon. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


89 


the  ignorance,  of  the  applicant ;  and  so  various  and  mi¬ 
nute  was  the  information  of  this  accomplished  man,  that 
there  scarcely  existed  any  branch  even  of  that  knowledge 
usually  called  practical,  to  which  he  could  not  impart 
from  his  stores  something  valuable  and  new.  The  agri¬ 
culturist  was  astonished  at  the  success  of  his  suggestions  ; 
and  the  mechanic  was  indebted  to  him  for  the  device 
which  abridged  his  labor  in  improving  its  result. 

It  happened  that  the  study  of  botany  was  not,  at  that 
day,  so  favorite  and  common  a  diversion  with  young 
ladies  as  it  is  now,  and  Ellinor,  captivated  by  the  notion 
of  a  science  that  gave  a  life  and  a  history  to  the  loveliest 
of  earth’s  offspring,  besought  Aram  to  teach  her  its  prin¬ 
ciples. 

As  Madeline,  though  she  did  not  second  the  request, 
could  scarcely  absent  herself  from  sharing  the  lesson,  this 
pursuit  brought  the  pair  —  already  lovers  —  closer  and 
closer  together.  It  associated  them  not  only  at  home, 
but  in  their  rambles  throughout  that  enchanting  country  ; 
and  there  is  a  mysterious  influence  in  Nature,  which  ren¬ 
ders  us,  in  her  loveliest  scenes,  the  most  susceptible  to 
love  !  Then,  too,  how  often  in  their  occupation  their 
hands  and  eyes  met:  —  how  often,  by  the  shady  wood  or 
the  soft  water-side,  they  found  themselves  alone.  In  all 
times,  how  dangerous  the  connection,  when  of  different 
sexes,  between  the  scholar  and  the  teacher  !  Under  how 
many  pretences,  in  that  connection,  the  heart  finds  the 
opportunity  to  speak  out ! 

Yet  it  was  not  with  ease  and  complacency  that  Aram 
8* 


9U 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


delivered  himself  to  the  intoxication  of  his  deepening 
attachment.  Sometimes  he  was  studiously  cold,  or  evi¬ 
dently  wrestling  with  the  powerful  passion* that  mastered 
his  reason.  It  was  not  without  many  throes,  and  despe¬ 
rate  resistance,  that  love  at  length  overwhelmed  and  sub¬ 
dued  him :  and  these  alternations  of  his  mood,  if  they 
sometimes  offended  Madeline  and  sometimes  wounded, 
still  rather  increased  than  lessened  the  spell  which  bound 
her  to  him.  The  doubt  and  the  fear  —  the  caprice  and 

the  change,  which  agitate  the  surface,  swell  also  the 

* 

tides,  of  passion.  Woman,  too,  whose  love  is  so  much 
the  creature  of  her  imagination,  always  asks  something 
of  mystery  and  conjecture  in  the  object  of  her  affection. 
It  is  a  luxury  to  her  to  perplex  herself  with  a  thousand 
apprehensions  ;  and  the  more  restlessly  her  lover  occu¬ 
pies  her  mind,  the  more  deeply  he  enthrals  it. 

Mingling  with  her  pure  and  tender  attachment  to 
Aram,  a  high  and  unswerving  veneration,  she  saw  in  his 
fitfulness,  and  occasional  abstraction  and  contradiction 
of  manner,  a  confirmation  of  the  modest  sentiment  that 
most  weighed  upon  her  fears ;  and  imagined  that  at 
those  times  he  thought  her,  as  she  deemed  herself,  un¬ 
worthy  of  his  love.  And  this  was  the  only  struggle 
which  she  conceived  to  pass  between  the  affection  he 
evidently  bore  her,  and  the  feelings  which  had  as  yet  re¬ 
strained  him  from  its  open  avowal.  x 

One  evening,  Lester  and  the  the  two  sisters  were  walk¬ 
ing  with  the  student  along  the  valley  that  led  to  the 
house  of  the  latter,  when  they  saw  an  old  woman  engaged 


ELGENE  ARaM. 


91 


in  collecting  fire-wood  among  the  bushes,  and  a  little  girl 
holding  out  her  apron  to  receive  the  sticks  with  which 
the  crone’s  skinny  arms  unsparingly  filled  it.  The  child 
trembled,  and  seemed  half-crying ;  while  the  old  woman, 
in  a  harsh,  grating  croak,  was  muttering  forth  mingled 
objurgation  and  complaint. 

There  was  something  in  the  appearance  of  the  latter 
at  once  impressive  and  displeasing ;  a  dark,  withered, 
furrowed  skin  was  drawn  like  parchment  over  harsh  and 
aquiline  features ;  the  eyes,  through  the  rheum  of  age, 
glittered  forth  black  and  malignant ;  and  even  her  stoop¬ 
ing  posture  did  not  conceal  a  height  greatly  above  the 
common  stature,  though  gaunt  and  shrivelled  with  years 
and  poverty.  It  was  a  form  and  face  that  might  have 
recalled  at  once  the  celebrated  description'  of  Otway,  on 
a  part  of  which  we  have  already  unconsciously  encroach¬ 
ed,  and  the  remaining  part  of  which  we  shall  wholly 
borrow. 

“ - On  her  crooked  shoulders  had  she  wrapped 

The  tattered  remnants  of  an  old  stript  hanging, 

That  served  to  keep  her  carcase  from  the  cold, 

So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her. 

Her  lower  weeds  were  all  o’er  coarsely  patched 
With  different  colored  rags,  black,  red,  white,  yellow, 

And  seemed  to  speak  variety  of  wretchedness.” 

See,”  said  Lester,  “  one  of  the  eyesores  of  our  village, 
(I  might  say)  the  only  discontented  person.” 

“  What !  Dame  Darkmans  !  ”  said  Ellin  or  quickly.  “  Ah  ! 
let  us  turn  back.  I  hate  to  encounter  that  old  woman  ; 
there  is  something  so  evil  and  savage  in  her  manner  o/ 


92 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


talk  — and  look,  how  she  rates  that  poor  girl,  whom  she 
has  dragged  or  decoyed  to  assist  her !  ” 

Aram  looked  curiously  on  the  old  hag.  “Poverty,’' 
said  he,  “makes  some  humble,  but  more  malignant;  is 
it  not  want  that  grafts  the  devil  on  this  poor  woman’s 
nature  ?  Come,  let  us  accost  her  —  I  like  conferring  with 
distress.” 

“It  is  hard  labor  this?  ”  said  the  student  gently. 

The  old  woman  looked  up  askant  —  the  music  of  the 
voice  that  addressed  her  sounded  harsh  on  her  ear. 

“Ay,  ay!”  she  answerd.  “You  fine  gentlefolks  can 
know  what  the  poor  suffer;  ye  talk  and  ye  talk,  but  ye 
never  assist.” 

“  Say  not  so,  dame,”  said  Lester  ;  “  did  I  not  send  you 
but  yesterday  bread  and  money  ?  and  when  do  you  ever 
look  up  at  the  hall  without  obtaining  relief?  ” 

“But  the  bread  was  as  dry  as  a  stick,”  growled  the 
hag  :  “  and  the  money,  what  was  it  ?  will  it  last  a  week  ? 
Oh,  yes  !  Ye  think  as  much  of  your  doits  and  mites,  as 
if  ye  stripped  yourselves  of  a  comfort  to  give  it  to  us. 
Did  you  have  a  dish  less  —  a  ’tato  less,  the  day  ye  sent 
me  —  your  charity,  I  ’spose  ye  calls  it  ?  Och  !  fie  J  But 
the  Bible’s  the  poor  cretur’s  comfort.” 

“  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  dame,”  said  the  good- 
natured  Lester  ;  “  and  I  forgive  every  thing  else  you  have 
said,  on  account  of  that  one  sentence 

The  old  woman  dropped  the  sticks  she  had  just  gathered 
and  glowered  at  the  speaker’s  benevolent  countenance 
with  a  malicious  meaning  in  her  dark  eyes. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


93 


“An’  ye  do  ?  Well,  I’m  glad  I  please  ye  there.  Och  1 
yes!  the  Bible’s  a  mighty  comfort;  for  it  says  as  much 
that  the  rich  man  shall  not  fnter  the  kingdom  of  heaven  i 
There’s  a  truth  for  you,  that  makes  the  poor  folk’s  heart 
chirp  like  a  cricket  —  ho  !  ho  !  I  sits  by  the  Ambers  of  a 
night,  and  I  thinks  and  thinks  as  how  I  shall  see  you  all 
burning;  and  ye’ll  ask  me  for  a  drop  o’  water,  and  I 
shall  laugh  thin  from  my  pleasant  seat  with  the  angels. 
Och  —  it’s  a  book  for  the  poor,  that !  ” 

The  sisters  shuddered.  “  And  you  think  then,  that 
with  envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness  at  your  heart, 
you  are  certain  of  heaven  ?  For  shame  !  Pluck  the 
mote  from  your  own  eye !  ” 

“  What  sinnifies  praching  ?  Did  not  the  blessed  Sa¬ 
vior  come  for  the  poor  ?  Them  as  has  rags  and  dry 
bread  here  will  be  ixalted  in  the  nixt  world ;  an’  if  we 
poor  folk  have  malice  as  ye  calls  it,  whose  fault’s  that  ? 
What  do  ye  tache  us?  Eh?  —  answer  me  that.  Ye 
keeps  all  the  laming  an’  all  the  other  fine  things  to  your- 
sel’,  and  then  ye  scould,  and  thritten,  and  hang  us,  ’cause 
we  are  not  as  wise  as  you.  Och  !  there  is  no  jistice  in  the 
Lamb,  if  heaven  is  not  made  for  us  ;  and  the  iverlasting 
hell,  with  its  brimstone  and  fire,  and  its  gnawing  an’ 
gnashing  of  teeth,  an’  its  theirst,  an’  its  torture,  and  its 
worm  that  never  dies,  for  the  like  o’ you.” 

“  Come  !  come  away,”  said  Ellinor,  pulling  her  father’s 
arm. 

“And  if,”  said  Aram  pausing,  “if  I  were  to  say  to 
you, —  name  your  want  and  it  shall  be  fulfilled,  would  you 
have  no  charity  for  me  also  ?  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Umph,”  returned  the  hag,  “ye  are  the  great  f  .colard  ; 
and  they  say  ye  knows  what  no  one  else  do.  Tz'll  me 
now,”  and  she  approached,  and  familiarly  laid  fier  bony 
linger  on  the  students  arm;  “till  me, —  have  ye  iver, 
among  other  fine  things,  known  poverty?” 

“  I  have,  woman  !  ”  said  Aram,  sternly. 

“  Och,  ye  have  thin  !  And  did  ye  not  sit  and  gloat, 
and  eat  up  your  own  heart,  an’  curse  the  sun  that  looked 
so  gay,  an’  the  winged  things  that  played  so  blithe-like, 
an’  scowl  at  the  rich  folk  that  never  wasted  a  thought  on 
ye  ?  till  me  now,  your  honor,  till  me  !  ” 

And  the  crone  curtesied  with  a  mock  air  of  beseeching 
humility.  * 

“  I  never  forgot,  even  in  want,  the  love  due  to  my  fel¬ 
low-sufferers  ;  for,  woman,  we  all  suffer, —  the  rich  and 
the  poor :  there  are  worse  pangs  than  those  of  want !  ” 
“Ye  think  there  be,  do  ye?  that’s  a  comfort,  umph  1 
Well,  I’ll  till  ye  now,  I  feel  a  rispict  for  you,  that  I  don’t 
for  the  rest  on  ’em  ;  for  your  face  does  not  insult  me 
with  being  cheary  like  their’s  yonder ;  an’  I  have  noted 
ye  walk  in  the  dusk  with  your  eyes  down  and  your  arms 
crossed  ;  an’  I  have  said — that  man  I  do  not  hate,  some¬ 
how,  for  he  has  something  dark  at  his  heart  like  me!” 

“  The  lot  of  earth  is  woe,”  answerd  Aram  calmly,  yet 
shrinking  back  from  the  crone’s  touch  ;  “judge  we  char¬ 
itably,  and  act  we  kindly  to  each  other.  There  —  this 
money  is  not  much,  but  it  will  light  your  heart,  and  heap 
your  table  without  toil,  for  some  days  at  least  I  ” 

“  Thank  your  honor  :  an’  what  think  you  I’ll  do  with 
the  money  ?  ” 


EUQENE  ARAM. 


95 


“  What  ?  ” 

“  Drink,  drink,  drink  !  ”  cried  the  hag  fiercely  ;  “there’s 
nothing  like  drink  for  the  poor,  for  thin  we  fancy  oursels 
what  we  wish,  and,”  sinking  her  voice  into  a  whisper, 
“  I  thinks  thin  that  I  have  my  foot  on  the  billies  of  the 
rich  folks,  and  my  hands  twisted  about  their  intrails,  and 
I  hear  them  shriek,  and  —  thin  I’m  happy  !  ” 

‘  Go  home  !  ’  said  Aram,  turning  away,  “  and  open  the 
book  of  life  with  other  thoughts.” 

The  little  party  proceeded,  and,  looking  back,  Lester 
saw  the  old  woman  gaze  after  them,  till  a  turn  in  the 
winding  valley  hid  her  from  his  sight. 

“  That  is  a  strange  person,  Aram ;  scarcely  a  favorable 
specimen  of  the  happy  English  peasant;”  said  Lester, 
smiling. 

“Yet  they  say,”  added  Madeline,  “that  she  was  not 
always  the  same  perverse  and  hateful  creature  she  is  now.” 

“  Ay,”  said  Aram,  “  and  what  then  is  her  history  ?  ” 

“Why,”  replied  Madeline,  slightly  blushing  to  find 
herself  made  the  narrator  of  a  story,  “  some  forty  years 
ago,  this  woman,  so  gaunt  and  hideous  now,  was  the 
beauty  of  the  village.  She  married  an  Irish  soldier  whose 
regiment  passed  through  Grassdale,  and  was  heard  of  no 
more  till  about  ten  years  back,  when  she  returned  to  her 
native  place,  the  discontented,  envious,  altered  being  you 
now  see  her.” 

“She  is  not  reserved  in  regard  to  her  past  life,”  said 
Lester.  “  She  is  too  happy  to  seize  the  attention  of  any 
one  to  whom  she  can  pour  forth  her  dark  and  angry  con* 


96 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


fidence.  She  saw  her  husband,  who  was  afterwards  dis¬ 
missed  the  service,  a  strong,  powerful  man,  a  giant  of  his 
trioe,  pine  and  waste,  inch  by  inch,  from  mere  physical 
want,  and  at  last  literally  die  from  hunger.  It  happened 
that  they  had  settled  in  the  county  in  which  her  husband 
was  born,  and  in  that  county,  those  frequent  famines 
which  are  the  scourge  of  Ireland  were  for  two  years  es¬ 
pecially  severe.  You  may  note,  that  the  old  woman  has 
a  strong  vein  of  coarse  eloquence  at  her  command,  per¬ 
haps  acquired  in  (for  it  partakes  of  the  natural  character 
of)  the  country  in  which  she  lived  so  long ;  and  it  would 
literally  thrill  you  with  horror  to  hear  her  descriptions  of 
the  misery  and  destitution  that  she  witnessed,  and  amidst 
which  her  husband  breathed  his  last.  Out  of  four  chil¬ 
dren,  not  one  survives.  One,  an  infant,  died  within  a 
week  of  his  father ;  two  sons  were  executed,  one  at  the 
age  of  sixteen,  one  a  year  older,  for  robbery  committed 
under  aggravated  circumstances  ;  and  the  fourth,  a  daugh¬ 
ter,  died  in  the  hospitals  of  London.  The  old  woman  be¬ 
came  a  wanderer  and  a  vagrant,  and  was  at  length  passed 
to  her  native  parish,  where  she  has  since  dwelt.  These 
are  the  misfortunes  which  have  turned  her  blood  to  gall ; 
and  these  are  the  causes  which  fill  her  with  so  bitter  a 
hatred  against  those  whom  wealth  has  preserved  from 
sharing  or  witnessing  a  fate  similar  to  hers.” 

Oh  !  ”  said  Aram,  in  a  low,  but  deep  tone,  “  when  — 
when  will  these  hideons  disparities  be  banished  from  the 
world  ?  How  many  noble  natures  —  how  many  glorious 
hopes  —  how  much  of  the  seraph’s  intellect,  have  been 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


91 


crushed  into  the  mire,  or  blasted  into  guilt,  by  the  mere 
force  of  physical  want  ?  What  are  the  temptations  of 
the  rich  to  those  of  the  poor  ?  Yet  see  how  lenient  we 
are  to  the  crimes  of  the  one, —  how  relentless  to  those 
of  the  other  !  It  is  a  bad  world  ;  it  makes  a  man’s  heart 
sick  to  look  around  him.  The  consciousness  of  how  little 
individual  genius  can  do  to  relieve  the  mass,  grinds  out, 
as  with  a  stone,  all  that  is  generous  in  ambition  ;  and  to 
aspire  from  the  level  of  life  is  but  to  be  more  graspingly 
selfish.” 

“  Can  legislators,  or  the  moralists  that  instruct  legis¬ 
lators,  do  so  little,  then,  towards  universal  good  ?  ”  said 
Lester,  doubtingly. 

“  Why,  what  can  they  do  but  forward  civilization  ? 
And  what  is  civilization,  but  an  increase  of  human  dispar¬ 
ities  ?  The  more  the  luxury  of  the  few,  the  more  start¬ 
ling  the  wants,  and  the  more  galling  the  sense,  of  poverty. 
Even  the  dreams  of  the  philanthropist  only  tend  towards 
equality  ;  and  where  is  equality  to  be  found,  but  in  the 
state  of  the  savage  ?  No  ;  I  thought  otherwise  once  ; 
but  I  now  regard  the  vast  lazar-house  around  us  without 
hope  of  relief :  —  Death  is  the  sole  Physician  !  ” 

“  Ah,  no  !  ”  said  the  high-souled  Madeline,  eagerly ; 
“do  not  take  away  from  us  the  best  feeling  and  the  high¬ 
est  desire  we  can  cherish.  How  poor,  even  in  this  beau¬ 
tiful  world,  with  the  warm  sun  and  fresh  air  about  us, 
that  alone  are  sufficient  to  make  us  glad,  would  be  life, 
if  we  could  not  make  the  happiness  of  others  !  ” 

Aram  looked  at  the  beautiful  speaker  with  a  soft  and 
I.— 9  G 


98 


EUGENE  AllAM. 


half-mournful  smile.  There  is  one  very  peculiar  pleasure 
that  we  feel  as  we  grow  older, —  it  is  to  see  embodied  in 
another  and  a  more  lovely  shape  the  thoughts  and  senti¬ 
ments  we  once  nursed  ourselves  ;  it  is  as  if  we  viewed 

before  us  the  incarnation  of  our  own  youth ;  and  it  is  no 

% 

wonder  that  we  are  warmed  towards  the  object,  that  thus 
seems  the  living  apparition  of  all  that  was  brightest 
within  ourselves  !  It  was  with  this  sentiment  that  Aram 
now  gazed  on  Madeline.  She  felt  the  gaze,  and  her 
heart  beat  delightedly,  but  she  sunk  at  once  into  a  silence, 
which  she  did  not  break  during  the  rest  of  their  walk. 

.  “  I  do  not  say,”  said  Aram,  after  a  pause,  “that  we  are 

not  able  to  make  the  happiness  of  those  immediately 
around  us.  I  speak  only  of  what  we  can  effect  for  the 
mass.  And  it  is  a  deadening  thought  to  mental  ambition, 
that  the  circle  of  happiness  we  can  create  is  formed  more 
by  our  moral  than  our  mental  qualities.  A  warm  heart, 
though  accompanied  but  by  a  mediocre  understanding, 
is  even  more  likely  to  promote  the  happiness  of  those 
around,  than  are  the  absorbed  and  abstract,  though  kindly 
powers  of  a  more  elevated  genius ;  but  (observing  Lester 
about  to  interrupt  him),  let  us  turn  from  this  topic, —  let 
us  turn  from  man’s  weakness  to  the  glories  of  the  mother- 
nature,  from  which  he  sprung.” 

And  kindling,  as  he  ever  did,  the  moment  he  approach¬ 
ed  a  subject  so  dear  to  his  studies,  Aram  now  spoke  of 
the  stars,  which  began  to  sparkle  forth, —  of  the  vast,  il¬ 
limitable  career  which  recent  science  had  opened  to  the 
imagination, —  and  of  the  old,  bewildering,  yet  eloquent 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


99 


theories  which  from  age  to  age  had  at  once  misled  and 
elevated  the  conjectures  of  past  ages.  All  this  was  a 
theme  which  his  listeners  loved  to  listen  to,  and  Madeline 
not  the  least.  Youth,  beauty,  pomp,  what  are  these,  in 
point  of  attraction,  to  a  woman’s  heart,  when  compared 
to  eloquence?  —  the  magic  of  the  tongue  is  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  spells ! 


CHAPTER  Till. 

THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  GENIUS. —  LESTER’S  SATISFACTION  AT 

THE  ASPECT  OF  EVENTS. - HIS  CONVERSATION  WITH 

WALTER. - A  DISCOVERY. 


“  Ale. —  I  am  for  Lidian : 


accident 

no  doubt 

will  draw  him 

from  his 

hermit’s 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

“  Lis. —  Spare  my  grief,  and  apprehend 
What  I  should  speak.” 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. —  The  Lover's  Progress. 

In  the  course  of  the  various  conversations  our  family 
of  Grassdale  enjoyed  with  their  singular  neighbor,  it  ap 
peared  that  his  knowledge  had  not  been  confined  to  the 
closet ;  at  times,  he  dropped  remarks  which  showed  that 
he  nad  neen  much  among  cities,  and  travelled  with  the 
design,  or  at  least  with  the  vigilance,  of  the  observer; 
but  he  did  not  love  to  be  drawn  into  any  detailed  accounts 


100 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


of  what  he  had  seen,  or  whither  he  had  been  ;  an  habit¬ 
ual  though  a  gentle  reserve,  kept  watch  over  the  past  — 
not  indeed  that  character  of  reserve  which  excites  the 
doubt,  but  which  inspires  the  interest.  His  most  gloomy 
moods  were  rather  abrupt  and  fitful  than  morose,  and  his 
usual  bearing  was  calm,  soft,  and  even  tender. 

There  is  a  certain  charm  about  great  superiority  of  in¬ 
tellect,  that  winds  into  deep  affections  which  a  much  more 
constant  and  even  amiability  of  manners  in  lesser  men, 
often  fails  to  reach.  Genius  makes  many  enemies,  but  it 
makes  sure  friends — friends  who  forgive  much,  who  en¬ 
dure  long,  who  exact  little  ;  they  partake  of  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  disciples  as  well  as  friends.  There  lingers  about 
the  human  heart  a  strong  inclination  to  look  upward  — 
to  revere  :  in  this  inclination  lies  the  source  of  religion, 
of  lovalty,  and  also  of  the  worship  and  immortality  which 
are  rendered  so  cheerfully  to  the  great  of  old.  And  in 
truth  it  is  a  divine  pleasure  to  admire  1  admiration  seems 
in  some  measure  to  appropriate  to  ourselves  the  qualities 
it  honors  in  others.  We  wed, —  we  root  ourselves  to  the 
natures  we  so  love  to  contemplate,  and  their  life  grows  a 
part  of  our  own.  Thus,  when  a  great  man,  who  has 
engrossed  our  thoughts,  our  conjectures,  our  homage,  dies, 
a  gap  seems  suddenly  left  in  the  world ;  a  wheel  in  the 
mechanism  of  our  own  being  appears  abruptly  stilled ;  a 
portion  of  ourselves,  and  not  our  worst  portion,  for  how 
many  pure,  high,  generous  sentiments  it  contains,  dies 
with  him  !  Yes  !  it  is  this  love,  so  rare,  so  exalted,  and 
so  denied  to  all  ordinary  men,  which  is  the  especial  priv* 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


101 


ilege  of  greatness,  whether  that  greatness  be  shown  iu 
wisdom,  in  enterprise,  in  virtue,  or  even,  till  the  wrorld 
learns  better,  in  the  more  daring  and  lofty  order  of  crime. 
A  Socrates  may  claim  it  to-day  —  a  Napoleon  to-morrow; 
nay,  a  brigand  chief,  illustrious  in  the  circle  in  which  he 
lives,  may  call  it  forth  no  less  powerfully  than  the  gener¬ 
ous  failings  of  a  Byron,  or  the  sublime  excellence  of  the 
greater  Milton. 

Lester  saw  with  evident  complacency  the  passion  grow¬ 
ing  up  between  his  friend  and  his  daughter ;  he  looked 
upon  it  as  a  tie  that  would  permanently  reconcile  Aram 
to  the  hearth  of  social  and  domestic  life  ;  a  tie  that  wrould 
constitute  the  happiness  of  his  daughter,  and  secure  to 
himself  a  relation  in  the  man  he  felt  most  inclined,  of  all 
he  knew,  to  honor  and  esteem.  He  remarked  in  the  gen¬ 
tleness  and  calm  temper  of  Aram  much  that  was  calcu¬ 
lated  to  insure  domestic  peace,  and  knowing  'Jits  peculiar 
disposition  of  Madeline,  he  felt  that  she  wa  i  exactly  the 
person,  not  only  to  bear  with  the  peculiarities  of  the  stu¬ 
dent,  but  to  venerate  their  source.  In  short,  the  more  he 
contemplated  the  idea  of  this  alliance,  the  more  he  was 
‘harmed  with  its  probability. 

Musing  on  this  subject,  the  good  squirt  was  one  day 
walking  in  his  garden,  when  he  perceived  his  nephew  at 
some  distance,  and  remarked  that  Walter,  on  seemg  him, 
was  about,  instead  of  coming  forward  to  meet  him,  to 
turn  down  an  alley  in  an  opposite  direction. 

A  little  pained  at  this,  and  remembering  tha'  Walter 
had  of  late  seemed  estranged  from  himself,  and  greatly 
9  * 


102 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


altered  from  the  high  and  cheerful  spirits  natural  to  his 
temper,  Lester  called  to  his  nephew;  and  Walter,  reluc¬ 
tantly  and  slowly  changing  his  purpose  of  avoidance, 
advanced  and  met  him. 

“  Why,  Walter !  ”  said  the  uncle,  taking  his  arm  ;  “  this 
is  somewhat  unkind  to  shun  me ;  are  you  engaged  in  any 
pursuit  that  requires  secrecy  or  haste  ?  ” 

“No  indeed,  sir!  ”  said  Walter  with  some  embarrass¬ 
ment  ;  “but  I  thought  you  seemed  wrapped  in  reflection, 
and  would  naturally  dislike  being  disturbed.” 

“  Hem  !  as  to  that,  I  have  no  reflections  I  wish  con¬ 
cealed  from  you,  Walter,  or  which  might  not  be  benefited 
by  your  advice.”  The  youth  pressed  his  uncle’s  hand,  but 
made  no  reply  ;  and  Lester,  after  a  pause,  continued  :  — 

“You  seem,  Walter,  I  am  most  delighted  to  think, 
entirely  to  have  overcome  the  little  unfavorable  prepos¬ 
session  which  at  first  you  testified  towards  our  excellent 
neighbor.  And  for  my  part  I  think  he  appears  to  be 
especially  attracted  towards  yourself :  he  seeks  your  com¬ 
pany  ;  and  to  me  he  always  speaks  of  you  in  terms,  which, 
coming  from  such  a  quarter,  give  me  the  most  lively 
gratification.  ” 

Walter  bowed  his  head,  but  not  in  the  delighted  van¬ 
ity  with  which  a  young  man  generally  receives  the  assur¬ 
ance  of  another’s  praise. 

“I  own,”  renewed  Lester,  “that  I  consider  our  friend¬ 
ship  with  Aram,  one  of  the  most  fortunate  occurrences 
(n  my  life ;  at  least,”  added  he  with  a  sigh,  “  of  late  years 
l  doubt  not  but  you  must  have  observed  the  partiality 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


103 


with  which  our  dear  Madeline  evidently  regards  him  ; 
and  yet  more,  the  attachment  to  her,  which  breaks  forth 
from  Aram,  in  spite  of  his  habitual  reserve  and  self-con¬ 
trol.  You  have  surely  noted  this,  Walter?  ” 

4 1  have,”  said  Walter,  in  a  low  tone,  and  turning  awaj 
l:;s  head. 

“  And  doubtless  you  share  my  satisfaction.  It  happens 
fortunately  now,  that  Madeline  early  contracted  that  stu¬ 
dious  and  thoughtful  turn,  which  I  must  own  at  one  time 
gave  me  some  uneasiness  and  vexation.  It  has  taught 
her  to  appreciate  the  value  of  a  mind  like  Aram’s.  For¬ 
merly,  my  dear  boy,  I  hoped  that  at  one  time  or  another, 
she  and  yourself  might  form  a  dearer  connection  than 
that  of  cousins.  But  I  was  disappointed,  and  I  am  now 
consoled.  And  indeed  I  think  there  is  that  in  Ellinor  which 
might  be  yet  more  calculated  to  render  you  happy ;  that 
is,  if  the  bias  of  your  mind  should  ever  lean  that  way.” 

“  You  are  very  good,”  said  Walter  bitterly.  “I  own 
I  am  not  flattered  by  your  selection  ;  nor  do  I  see  why 
the  plainest  and  least  brilliant  of  the  two  sisters  must 
necessarily  be  the  fittest  for  me.” 

“  Nay,”  replied  Lester,  piqued,  and  justly  angry,  “  I  do 
not  think,  even  if  Madeline  have  the  advantage  of  her 
sister,  that  you  can  find  any  fault  with  the  personal  or 
mental  attractions  of  Ellinor.  But  indeed  this  is  not  a 
matter  in  which  relations  should  interfere.  I  am  far  from 
any  wish  to  prevent  you  from  choosing  throughout  the 
world  any  one  whom  you  may  prefer.  All  I  hope  is, 
that  your  future  wife  will  be  like  Ellinor  in  kindness  of 
heart  and  sweetness  of  temper.” 


104 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  From  choosing  throughout  the  world  !  ”  repeated 
Walter;  “ and  how  in  this  nook  am  I  to  see  the  world  ?  ” 
“  Walter !  your  voice  is  reproachful ! — do  I  deserve  it  ? ’ 
Walter  was  silent. 

“  I  have  of  late  observed,”  continued  Lester,  “  and 
with  wounded  feelings,  that  you  do  not  give  me  the  same 
confidence,  or  meet  me  with  the  same  alfection,  that  you 
once  delighted  me  by  manifesting  towards  me.  I  know 
of  no  cause  for  this  change.  Do  not  let  us,  my  son,  for 
I  may  so  call  you  —  do  not  let  us,  as  we  grow  older,  grow 
also  more  apart.  Time  divides  with  a  sufficient  demar¬ 
cation  the  young  from  the  old ;  why  deepen  the  neces¬ 
sary  line  ?  You  know  well,  that  I  have  never  from  your 
childhood  insisted  heavily  on  a  guardian’s  authority.  I 
have  always  loved  to  contribute  to  your  enjoyments,  and 
shown  you  how  devoted  I  am  to  your  interests,  by  the 
very  frankness  with  which  I  have  consulted  you  on  my 
own.  If  there  be  now  on  your  mind  any  secret  grievance, 
or  any  secret  wish,  speak  it,  Walter: — you  are  alone 
with  the  friend  on  earth  who  loves  you  best !  ” 

Walter  was  wholly  overcome  by  this  address:  he  press¬ 
ed  his  good  uncle’s  hand  to  his  lips,  and  it  was  some  mo¬ 
ments  before  he  mustered  self-composure  sufficient  to  reply. 

“You  have  ever,  ever  been  to  me  all  that  the  kindest 
parent,  the  tenderest  friend  could  have  been  :  —  believe 
me,  I  am  not  ungrateful.  If  of  late  I  have  been  altered, 
the  cause  is  not  in  you.  Let  me  speak  freely  :  you  encour¬ 
age  me  to  do  so.  I  am  young,  my  temper  is  restless  ;  I 
have  a  love  of  enterprise  and  adventure  :  is  it  not  natu* 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


105 


ral  that  1  should  long  to  see  the  world?  This  is  the 
cause  of  mj  late  abstraction  of  mind.  I  have  now  told 
you  all :  it  is  for  you  to  decide.  ” 

Lester  looked  wistfully  on  his  nephew’s  countenance 
before  he  replied  — 

“It  is  as  I  gathered,”  said  he,  “from  various  remarks 
which  you  have  lately  let  fall.  I  cannot  blame  your  wish 
to  leave  us  ;  it  is  certainly  natural ;  nor  can  I  oppose  it. 
Go,  Walter,  when  you  will!” 

The  young  man  turned  round  with  a  lighted  eye  and 
flushed  cheek. 

“And  why,  Walter?”  said  Lester,  interrupting  his 
thanks,  “  why  this  surprise  ?  why  this  long  doubt  of  my 
affection  ?  Could  you  believe  I  should  refuse  a  wish  that, 
at  your  age,  I  should  have  expressed  myself?  You  have 
wronged  me  ;  you  might  have  saved  a  world  of  pain  to 
us  both  by  acquainting  me  with  your  desire  when  it  was 
first  formed  ;  but,  enough.  I  see  Madeline  and  Aram 
approach, —  let  us  join  them  now,  and  to-morrow  we  will 
arrange  the  time  and  method  of  your  departure.” 

“Forgive  me,  sir,”  said  Waltet,  stopping  abruptly  as 
the  glow  faded  from  his  cheek,  “I  have  not  yet  recovered 
myself ;  I  am  not  fit  for  other  society  than  yours.  Excuse 
me  joining  my  cousin,  and  —  r 

“Walter  !  ”  said  Lester,  also  stopping  short  and  look-  * 
ing  full  on  his  nephew,  “a  painful  thought  flashes  upon 
me!  Would  to  heaven  I  may  be  wrong!  —  Have  you 
pver  felt  for  Madeline  more  tenderly  than  for  a  sister  ?  ” 
Walter  literally  trembled  as  he  stood.  The  tears  rushed 


106 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Into  Lester's  eyes:  —  he  grasped  his  nephew’s  hand 
warmly  — 

“  God  comfort  thee,  my  poor  boy  !  ”  said  he,  with  great 
emotion  ;  “  I  never  dreamt  of  this.” 

Walter  felt  now  that  he  was  understood.  He  grate¬ 
fully  returned  the  pressure  of  his  uncle’s  hand,  and  then, 
withdrawing  his  own,  darted  down  one  of  the  intersect¬ 
ing  walks,  and  was  almost  instantly  out  of  sight. 


s 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  STATE  OF  WALTER’S  MIND. —  AN  ANGLER  AND  A  MAN 
OF  THE  WORLD. —  A  COMPANION  FOUND  FOR  WALTER. 


“This  great  disease  for  love  I  dre,  * 

There  is  no  tongue  can  tell  the  wo; 

I  love  the  love  that  loves  not  me, 

I  may  not  mend,  but  mourning  mo.” 

The  Mourning  Maiden. 

f‘  I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be, 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me, 

To  whose  harmouious  bubbling  voice 
with  my  angle  would  rejoice.”  — 

Izaac  Walton. 

When  Walter  left  his  uncle,  he  hurried,  scarcely  con¬ 
scious  of  his  steps,  towards  his  favorite  haunt  by  the 
water-side.  From  a  child,  he  had  singled  out  that  scene 
as  the  witness  of  his  early  sorrows  or  boyish  schemes ; 
and,  still,  the  solitude  of  the  place  cherished  the  habit  of 
his  boyhood. 


Bear.  * 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


10} 


Long  had  he,  unknown  to  himself,  nourished  an  attach¬ 
ment  to  his  beautiful  cousin  ;  nor  did  he  awaken  to  the 
secret  of  his  heart,  until,  with  an  agonizing  jealousy,  he 
penetrated  the  secret  at  her  own.  The  reader  has,  doubt¬ 
less,  already  perceived  that  it  was  this  jealousy  which  at 
the  first  occasioned  Walter’s  dislike  to  Aram  :  the  con¬ 
solation  of  that  dislike  was  forbid  him  now.  The  gentle¬ 
ness  and  forbearance  of  the  student’s  deportment  had 
taken  away  all  ground  of  offence  ;  and  Walter  had 
sufficient  generosity  to  acknowledge  his  merits,  while 
tortured  by  their  effect.  Silently,  till  this  day,  he  had 
gnawed  his  heart,  and  found  for  its  despair  no  confidant 
and  no  comfort.  The  only  wish  that  he  cherished  was  a 
feverish  and  gloomy  desire  to  leave  the  scene  which  wit¬ 
nessed  the  triumph  of  his  rival.  Every  thing  around  had 
become  hateful  to  his  eyes,  and  a  curse  had  lighted  upon 
the  face  of  Home.  He  thought  now,  with  a  bitter  satis¬ 
faction,  that  his  escape  was  at  hand  :  in  a  few  days  he 
might  be  rid  of  the  gall  and  the  pang,  which  every  mo¬ 
ment  of  his  stay  at  Grassdale  inflicted  upon  him.  The 
sweet  voice  of  Madeline  he  should  hear  no  more,  subdu¬ 
ing  its  silver  sound  for  his  rival’s  ear: — no  more  he 
should  watch  apart,  and  himself  unheeded,  how  timidly 
her  glance  roved  in  search  of  another,  or  how  vividly  her 
cheek  flushed  when  the  step  of  that  happier  one  approach¬ 
ed.  Many  miles  would  at  least  shut  out  this  picture  from 
his  view ;  and  in  absence,  was  it  not  possible  that  he 
might  teach  himself  to  forget  ?  Thus  meditating,  ho 
arrived  at  the  banks  of  the  little  brooklet,  and  was  awa- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


108 

kened  from  his  reverie  by  the  sound  of  his  own  name. 
He  started,  and  saw  the  old  corporal  seated  on  the  stump 
of  a  tree,  and  busily  employed  in  fixing  to  his  line  the 
mimic  likeness  of  what  anglers,  and  for  aught  we  know, 
the  rest  of  the  world,  call  the  “  violet-fly.  ” 

“Ha!  master, —  at  my  day’s  work,  you  see:  —  fit  for 
nothing  else  now.  When  a  musket’s  half  worn '  out, 
school-boys  buy  it  —  pop  it  at  sparrows.  I  be  like  the 
musket:  but  never  mind  —  have  not  seen  the  world  for 
nothing.  We  get  reconciled  to  all  things:  that’s  my 
way  —  augh  !  How,  sir,  you  shall  watch  me  catch  the 
finest  trout  you  have  seen  this  summer :  know'  where  he 
lies  —  under  the  bush  yonder.  Whi — sh  !  sir,  whi  —  sh  !  ” 

The  corporal  now  gave  his  warrior  soul  up  to  the  due 
guidance  of  the  violet-fly  :  now  he  whipped  it  lightly  on 
the  wave  ;  now  he  slid  it  coquettishly  along  the  surface  ; 
now  it  floated  like  an  unconscious  beauty,  carelessly  with 
the  tide ;  and  now,  like  an  artful  prude,  it  affected  to 
loiter  by  the  way,  or  to  steal  into  designing  obscurity 
under  the  shade  of  some  overhanging  bank.  But  none 
of  these  manoeuvres  captivated  the  wary  old  trout  on 
whose  acquisition  the  corporal  had  set  his  heart ;  and 
what  was  especially  provoking,  the  angler  could  see  dis¬ 
tinctly  the  dark  outline  of  the  intended  victim,  as  it  lay 
at  the  bottom, —  like  some  well-regulated  bachelor  who 
eyes  from  afar  the  charms  he  has  discreetly  resolved  to 
neglect. 

The  corporal  w'aited  till  he  could  no  longer  blind  him¬ 
self  to  the  displeasing  fact,  than  the  violet-fly  was  wholly 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


109 


inefficacious ;  he  then  threw  up  his  line,  and  replaced  the 
contemned  beauty  of  the  violet-fly, with  the  novel  attrac 
tion  of  the  yellow-dun. 

“  Now,  sir  !  ”  whispered  he,  lifting  up  his  finger,  and 
nodding  sagaciously  to  Walter.  Softly  dropped  the  yel¬ 
low-dun  upon  the  water,  and  swiftly  did  it  glide  before 
the  gaze  of  the  latent  trout ;  and  now  the  trout  seemed 
aroused  from  his  apathy :  behold  he  moved  forward,  bal¬ 
ancing  himself  on  his  fins ;  now  he  slowly  ascended  to¬ 
wards  the  surface ;  you  might  see  all  the  speckles  of  his 
coat;  the  corporal’s  heart  stood  still — he  is  now  at  a 
convenient  distance  from  the  yellow-dun  ;  lo,  he  surveys 
it  steadfastly ;  he  ponders,  he  see-saws  himself  to  and 
fro.  The  yellow-dun  sails  away  in  affected  indifference, 
that  indifference  whets  the  appetite  of ^ the  hesitating 
gazer,  he  darts  forward  ;  he  is  opposite  the  yellow-dun  — 
he  pushes  his  nose  against  it  with  an  eager  rudeness, — 
he  —  no,  he  does  not  bite,  he  recoils,  he  gazes  again  with 
surprise  and  suspicion  on  the  little  charmer ;  he  fades 
back  slowly  into  the  deeper  water,  and  then  suddenly 
turning  his  tail  towards  the  disappointed  bait,  he  makes 
off  as  fast  as  he  can, —  yonder  —  yonder,  and  disappears! 
No,  that’s  he  leaping  yonder  from  the  wave;  Jupiter! 
what  a  noble  fellow  !  What  leaps  he  at  ?  —  a  real  fly  — 
“  Damn  his  eyes  !  ”  growled  the  corporal. 

“You  might  have  caught  him  with  a  minnow,”  said 
Walter,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

“Minnow!”  repeated  the  corporal  gruffly,  “ask  your 

% 

honor’s  pardon.  Minnow  !  —  I  have  fished  with  the  yel* 
L— 10 


110 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


low-dun  tliese  twenty  years,  and  never  knew  it  fail  before. 
Minnows  !  —  baugh  !  But  ask  pardon  :  your  honor  is 
rery  welcome  to  fish  with  a  minnow  if  you  please  it.” 

“  Thank  you,  Bunting.  And  pray  what  sport  have 
you  had  to-day  ?  ” 

“Oh, —  good,  good,”  quoth  the  corporal,  snatching  up 
his  basket  and  closing  the  cover,  lest  the  young  squire 
should  pry  into  it.  No  man  is  more  tenacious  of  his 
secrets  than  your  true  angler.  “  Sent  the  best  home  two 
hours  ago;  one  weighed  three  pounds,  on  the  faith  of  a 
man  ;  indeed,  I’m  satisfied  now  ;  time  to  give  it  up ;  ” 
and  the  corporal  began  to  disjoint  his  rod. 

“  Ah,  sir  !  ”  said  he,  with  a  half  sigh,  “  a  pretty  river 
this,  don’t  mean  to  say  it  is  not ;  but  the  river  Lea  for 
my  money.  You  know  the  Lea  ?  —  not  a  morning’s  walk 
from  Lunnun.  Mary  Gibson,  my  first  sweetheart,  lived 
by  the  bridge, —  caught  such  a  trout  there  by-the-by  !  — 
had  beautiful  eyes  —  black,  round  as  a  cherry  —  five  feet 
eight  without  shoes  —  might  have  listed  in  the  forty- 
second.” 

“  Who,  Bunting  !”  said  Walter  smiling,  “the  lady  oi 
the  trout  ?  ” 

“  Augh  !  —  baugh  !  —  what  ?  Oh,  laughing  at  me, 
your  honor,  you’re  welcome,  sir.  Love’s  a  silly  thing  — 
know  the  world  now  —  have  not  fallen  in  love  these  ten 
years.  I  doubt  —  no  offence,  sir,  no  offence  —  I  doubt 
whether  your  honor  and  Miss  Ellinor  can  say  as  much.” 

“I  and  Miss  Ellinor  1  —  you  forget  yourself  strangely 
Bunting,”  said  Walter,  coloring  with  anger. 


.EUGENE  ARAM. 


Ill 


“Beg  pardon,  sir,  beg  pardon  —  rough  soldier  —  lived 

away  from  the  world  so  long,  words  slipped  out  of  m3 
» 

mouth  —  absent  without  leave.” 

“But  why,”  said  Walter,  smothering  or  conquering- 
his  vexation, —  why  couple  me  with  Miss  Ellinor  ?  Did 
you  imagine  that  we, —  we  were  in  love  with  each  other?” 

“  Indeed,  sir,  and  if  I  did,  his  no  more  than  my  neigh¬ 
bors  imagine  too.” 

“  Humph  !  your  neighbors  are  very  silly,  then,  and 
very  wrong.” 

“Beg  pardon,  sir,  again  —  always  getting  askew.  In¬ 
deed  some  did  say  it  was  Miss  Madeline,  but  I  says, — 
says  I, —  ‘No!  I’m  a  man  of  the  world  —  see  through 
a  millstone  ;  Miss  Madeline’s  too  easy  like;  Miss  Nelly 
blushes  when  he  speaks ;  ’  scarlet  is  love’s  regimentals  — 
it  was  ours  in  the  forty-second,  edged  with  yellow  —  pep¬ 
per  and  salt  pantaloons  !  For  my  part  I  think, —  but  I’ve 
no  business  to  think,  howsomever  —  baugh  !  ” 

“  Pray  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Bunting  ?  Why  do  you 
hesitate  ?  ” 

“  ’Fraid  of  offence  —  but  I  do  think  that  Master  Aram 
—  your  honor  understands  —  howsomever  squire’s  daugh¬ 
ter  too  great  a  match  for  such  as  he !  ” 

Walter  did  not  answer;  and  the  garrulous  old  soldier, 
who  had  been  the  young  man’s  playmate  and  companion 
since  Walter  was  a  boy,  and  was  therefore  accustomed 
tc  the  familiarity  with  which  he  now  spoke,  continued, 
mingling  with  his  abrupt  prolixity  an  occasional  shrewd¬ 
ness  of  ooservation  which  showed  that  he  was  no  inat- 


112 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


tentive  commentator  on  the  little  and  quiet  world  around 
him. 

“Free  to  confess,  squire  Walter,  that  I  don’t  quite  like 
^  this  larned  man,  as  much  as  the  rest  of  ’em  —  something 
queer  about  him  —  can’t  see  to  the  bottom  of  him — - 
don’t  think  he’s  quite  so  meek  and  lamb-like  as  he  seems : 

—  once  saw  a  calm  dead  pool  in  foron  parts  —  peered 
down  into  it  —  by  little  and  little,  my  eye  got  used  to  it 
— saw  something  dark  at  the  bottom  —  stared  and  stared 

—  by  Jupiter  —  a  great  big  alligator!  —  walked  off  im¬ 
mediately —  never  liked  quiet  pools  since  —  augh,  no  !  ” 

“  An  argument  against  quiet  pools,  perhaps,  Bunting  ; 
but  scarcely  against  quiet  people.” 

“  Don’t  know  as  to  that,  your  honor  —  much  of  a  much¬ 
ness.  I  have  seen  Master  Aram,  demure  as  he  looks, 
start,  and  bite  his  lip,  and  change  color,  and  frown  —  he 
has  an  ugly  frown,  I  can  tell  ye  —  when  he  thought  no 
one  nigh.  A  man  who  gets  into  a  passion  with  himself 
may  be  soon  out  of  temper  with  others.  Free  to  confess, 
I  should  not  like  to  see  him  married  to  that  stately  beau¬ 
tiful  young  lady  —  but  they  do  gossip  about  it  in  the  vil¬ 
lage.  If  it  is  not  true,  better  put  the  squire  on  his  guard 
• — false  rumors  often  beget  truths  —  beg  pardon,  your 
honor  —  no  business  of  mine  —  baugh  !  But  I ’m  a  lone 

man,  who  have  seen  the  world,  and  I  thinks  on  the  things 

% 

around  me,  and  I  turns  over  the  quid  —  now  on  this  side, 
now  on  the  other  —  ’tis  my  way,  sir. —  and  —  but  I  offend 
your  honor.” 

“  Not  at  all ;  I  know  you  are  an  honest  man,  Bunting, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


lib 

and  well  affected  to  our  family ;  at  the  same  time  it  is 
neither  prudent  nor  charitable  to  speak  harshly  of  our 
neighbors  without  sufficient  cause.  And  really  you  seem 
to  me  to  be  a  little  hasty  in  your  judgment  of  a  man  so 
inoffensive  in  his  habits  and  so  justly  and  generally  es¬ 
teemed  as  Mr.  Aram.” 

“May  be,  sir, —  may  be, —  very  right  what  you  say. 
But  I  thinks  what  I  thinks  all  the  same ;  and  indeed,  it 
is  a  thing  that  puzzles  me,  how  that  strange-looking  vag¬ 
abond,  as  frightened  the  ladies  so,  and  who,  Miss  Nelly 
told  me,  for  she  saw  them  in  his  pocket,  carried  pistols 
about  him,  as  if  he  had  been  among  cannibals  and  hot- 
tentots,  instead  of  the  peaceablest  county  that  man  ever 
set  foot  in,  should  boast  of  his  friendship  with  this  larned 
scollard,  and  pass  a  whole  night  in  his  house.  Birds  of  a 
feather  flock  together  —  augh  !  —  sir !  ” 

“A  man  cannot  surely  be  answerable  for  the  respecta¬ 
bility  of  all  his  acquaintances,  even  though  he  feel  obliged 
to  offer  them  the  accommodation  of  a  night’s  shelter.” 

“ Baugh  1”  grunted  the  corporal.  “Seen  the  world, 
sir  —  seen  the  world  —  young  gentlemen  are  always  so 
good-natured  ;  ’tis  a  pity,  that  the  more  one  sees,  the 
more  suspicious  one  grows.  One  does  not  have  gumption 
till  one  has  been  properly  cheated  —  one  must  be  made  a 
fool  of  very  often  in  order  not  to  be  fooled  at  last!  ” 

“  Well,  corporal,  I  shall'now  have  opportunities  enough 
of  profiting  by  experience.  I  am  going  to  leave  Grass- 
dale  in  a  few  days,  and  learn  suspicion  and  wisdom  in  the 
great  world.” 

10* 


H 


114 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“Augh!  baugh  1  —  what  ?”  cried  the  corporal,  start' 
ing  from  the  contemplative  air  which  he  had  hitherto  as. 
sumed.  “  The  great  world  ?  —  how  ?  — when  ?  —  going 
away  ?  —  who  goes  with  your  honor  ?  ” 

“  My  honor’s  self ;  I  have  no  companion,  unless  you 
like  to  attend  me;”  said  Walter,  jestingly  —  but  the 
corporal  affected,  with  his  natural  shrewdness,  to  take  the 
proposition  in  earnest. 

“  I !  your  honor’s  too  good  ;  and  indeed,  though  I  say 
it,  sir,  you  might  do  worse ;  not  but  what  I  should  be 
sorry  to  leave  nice  snug  home  here,  and  this  stream,  though 
the  trout  have  been  shy  lately, —  ah  !  that  was  a  mistake 
of  yours,  sir,  recommending  the  minnow ;  and  neighbor 
Dealtry,  though  his  ale’s  not  so  good  as  ’twas  last  year ; 
and  —  and  —  but  in  short,  I  always  loved  your  honor  — 
dangled  you  on  my  knees; — You  recollect  the  broad¬ 
sword  exercise  ?  —  one  two,  three  —  augh  !  baugh  !  — 
and  if  your  honor  really  is  going,  why  rather  than  you 
should  want  a  proper  person  who  knows  the  world,  to 
brush  your  coat,  polish  your  shoes,  give  you  good  advice 
—  on  the  faith  of  a  man,  I’ll  go  with  you  myself!” 

This  alacrity  on  the  part  of  the  corporal,  was  far  from 
displeasing  to  Walter.  The  proposal  he  had  at  first 
made  unthinkingly,  he  now  seriously  thought  advisable ; 
and  at  length  it  was  settled  that  the  corporal  should  call 
next  morning  at  the  manor-house,  and  receive  instructions 
as  to  the  time  and  method  of  their  departure.  Not  for¬ 
getting,  as  the  sagacious  Bunting  delicately  insinuated, 
“the  wee  settlements  as  to  wages,  and  board  wages,  more 
a  matter  of  form,  like,  than  any  thing  else  —  augh  \  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


115 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  LOVERS. —  THE  ENCOUNTER  AND  QUARREL  OP  THE 

RIVALS. 

“Two  such  I  saw,  that  time  the  labored  ox 
In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came.” —  Cornu*. 

“Pedro.  Now  do  me  noble  right. 

“  Rod.  I’ll  satisfy  you ; 

But  qot  by  the  sword.” 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. —  The  Pilgrim 

While  Walter  and  the  corporal  enjoyed  the  above 
conversation,  Madeline  and  Aram,  whom  Lister  soon  left 
to  themselves,  were  pursuing  their  walk  along  the  solitary 
fields.  Their  love  had  passed  from  the  eye  to  the  lip, 
and  now  found  expression  in  words. 

“  Observe,”  said  he,  as  the  light  touch  of  one  who  he  felt 
loved  him  entirely,  rested  on  his  arm, —  “  Observe,  as  the 
later  summer  now  begins  to  breathe  a  more  various  and 
mellow  glory  into  the  landscape,  how  singularly  pure  and 
lucid  the  atmosphere  becomes.  When,  two  months  ago, 
in  the  full  flush  of  June,  I  walked  through  these  fields,  a 
grey  mist  hid  yon  distant  hills  and  the  far  forest  from  my 
view.  Now,  with  what  a  transparent  stillness  the  whole 
expanse  of  scenery  spreads  itself  before  us!  And  such, 
Madeline,  is  the  change  that  has  come  over  myself  since 
that  time.  Then,  if  1  looked  beyond  the  limited  present, 


116 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


all  was  dim  and  indistinct.  Now,  the  mist  has  faded 
away  —  the  broad  future  extends  before  me,  calm  and 
bright  with  the  hope  which  is  borrowed  from  your  love  !  ” 

We  will  not  tax  the  patience  of  the  reader,  who  seldom 
enters  with  keen  interest  into  the  mere  dialogue  of  love, 
with  the  blushing  Madeline’s  reply,  or  with  all  the  soft 
vows  and  tender  confessions  which  the  rich  poetry  of 
Aram’s  mind  made  yet  more  delicious  to  the  ear  of  his 
dreaming  and  devoted  mistress. 

“There  is  one  circumstance,”  said  Aram,  “which  casts 
a  momentary  shade  on  the  happiness  I  enjoy  —  my  Mad¬ 
eline  probably  guesses  its  nature.  I  regret  to  see  that 
the  blessing  of  your  love  must  be  purchased  by  the  misery 
of  another,  and  that  other,  the  nephew  of  my  kind  friend. 
You  have  doubtless  observed  the  melancholy  of  Walter 
Lester,  and  have  long  since  known  its  origin.” 

“  Indeed,  Eugene,”  answered  Madeline,  “  it  has  given 
me  great  pain  to  note  what  you  refer  to,  for  it  would  be 
a  false  delicacy  in  me  to  deny  that  I  have  observed  it. 
But  Walter  is  young  and  high-spirited;  nor  do  I  think 
he  is  of  a  nature  to  love  long  where  there  is  no  return !  ” 

“And  what,”  said  Aram  sorrowfully, —  “what  deduc¬ 
tion  from  reason  can  ever  apply  to  love  ?  Love  is  a  very 
contradiction  of  all  the  elements  of  our  ordinary  nature, 
—  it  makes  the  proud  man  meek, —  the  cheerful,  sad, — 
the  high-spirited,  tame ;  our  strongest  resolutions,  our 
hardiest  energy  fail  before  it.  Believe  me,  you  cannot 
prophesy  of  its  future  effect  in  a  man,  from  any  knowledge 
of  his  past  character  I  grieve  to  think  that  the  blow 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


falls  upon  one  in  early  youth,  ere  the  world’s  disappoint' 
merits  have  blunted  the  heart,  or  the  world’s  numerous 
interests  have  multiplied  its  resources.  Men’s  minds  have 
been  turned  when  they  have  not  well  sifted  the  cause  them¬ 
selves,  and  their  fortunes  marred,  by  one  stroke  on  the 
affections  of  their  youth.  So  at  least  have  I  read,  Mad¬ 
eline,  and  so  marked  in  others.  For  myself,  I  knew 
nothing  of  love  in  its  reality  till  I  knew  you.  But  who 
can  know  you,  and  not  sympathise  with  him  who  has  lost 
you  ?  ” 

“Ah,  Eugene!  you  at  least  overrate  the  influence 
which  love  produces  on  men.  A  little  resentment  and  a 
little  absence  will  soon  cure  my  cousin  of  an  ill-placed 
and  ill-requited  attachment.  You  do  not  think  how  easy 
it  is  to  forget.” 

“  Forget !  ”  said  Aram  stopping  abruptly  :  “  Ay,  for¬ 
get —  it  is  a  strange  truth!  we  do  forget!  the  summer 
passes  over  the  furrow,  and  the  corn  springs  up  ;  the  sod 
forgets  the  flower  of  the  past  year ;  the  battle-field  for¬ 
gets  the  blood  that  has  been  spilt  upon  its  turf ;  the  sky 
forgets  the  storm  ;  and  the  water  the  noon-day  sun  that 
slept  upon  its  bosom.  All  nature  preaches  forgetfulness. 
Its  very  order  is  the  progress  of  oblivion.  And  I  —  I  — 
give  me  your  hand,  Madeline, —  I,  ha  !  ha  !  I  forget  too.” 

As  Aram  spoke  thus  wildly,  his  countenance  worked ; 
but  his  voice  was  slow,  and  scarcely  audible ;  he  seemed 
rather  conferring  with  himself,  than  addressing  Madeline. 
But  when  his  words  ceased,  and  he  felt  the  soft  hand 
of  his  betrothed,  and  turning,  saw  her  anxious  and  wist- 


118 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ful  eyes  fixed  in  alarm,  yet  in  all  unsuspecting  confidence, 
on  his  face  ;  his'  features  relaxed  into  their  usual  serenity, 
and  kissing  the  hand  he  clasped,  he  continued  in  a  col¬ 
lected  and  steady  tone, 

“  Forgive  me,  my  sweetest  Madeline.  These  fitful  and 
strange  moods  sometimes  come  upon  me  yet.  I  have 
been  so  long  in  the  habit  of  pursuing  any  train  of 
thought,  however  wild,  that  presents  itself,  to  my  mind, 
that  I  cannot  easily  break  it,  even  in  your  presence.  All 
studious  men  — the  twilight  Eremites  of  books  and  clos¬ 
ets,  contract  this  ungraceful  custom  of  soliloquy.  You 
know  our  abstraction  is  a  common  jest  and  proverb  :  you 
must  laugh  me  out  of  it.  But  stay,  dearest !  — there  is  a 
rare  herb  at  your  feet,  let  me  gather  it.  So,  do  you 
note  its  leaves  —  this  bending  and  silver  flower?  Let  us 
rest  on  this  bank,  and  I  will  tell  you  of  its  qualities. 
Beautiful  as  it  is,  it  has  a  poison.” 

The  place  in  which  the  lovers  rested,  is  one  which  the 
villagers  to  this  day  call  “  The  Lady’s-seat ;  ”  for  Made¬ 
line,  whose  history  is  fondly  preserved  in  that  district, 
was  afterwards  wont  constantly  to  repair  to  that  bank 
(during  a  short  absence  of  her  lover,  hereafter  to  be  no¬ 
ted,)  and  subsequent  events  stamped  with  interest  every 
spot  she  was  known  to  have  favored  with  resort.  And 
when  the  flower  had  been  duly  conned,  and  the  study  dis¬ 
missed,  Aram,  to  whom  all  the  signs  of  the  seasons  were 
familiar,  pointed  to  her  the  thousand  symptoms  of  the 
month  which  are  unheeded  by  less  observant  eyes ;  not 
forgetting,  as  they  thus  reclined,  their  hands  clasped 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


119 


together,  to  couple  each  remark  with  some  allusion  to  his 
love  or  some  deduction  which  heightened  compliment  into 
poetry.  He  bade  her  mark  the  light  gossamer  as  it  float¬ 
ed  on  the  air  ;  now  soaring  high  —  high  into  the  translu¬ 
cent  atmosphere ;  now  suddenly  stooping,  and  sailing 
away  beneath  the  boughs,  which  ever  and  anon  it  hung 
with  a  silken  web,  that  by  the  next  morn,  would  glitter 
with  a  thousand  dew-drops.  “  And,  so,”  said  he  fanci¬ 
fully,  “  does  love  lead  forth  its  numberless  creations, 
making  the  air  its  path  and  empire ;  ascending  aloof  at 
its  wild  will,  hanging  its  meshes  on  every  bough,  and 
biddiug  the  common  grass  break  into  a  fairy  lustre  at  the 
beam  of  the  daily  sun  !  ” 

He  pointed  to  her  the  spot,  where,  in  the  silent  brake, 
the  harebells,  now  waxing  rare  and  few,  yet  lingered — or 
where  the  mystic  ring  on  the  soft  turf  conjured  up  the 
associations  of  Oberon  and  his  train.  That  superstition 
gave  license  and  play  to  his  full  memory  and  glowing 
fancy;  and  Shakspeare  —  Spenser  —  Ariosto  —  the  magic 
of  each  mighty  master  of  Fairy  Realm  —  he  evoked,  and 
poured  into  her  transported  ear.  It  was  precisely  such 

arts,  which  to  a  gayer  and  more  worldly  nature  than 

» 

Madeline’s  might  have  seemed  but  wearisome,  that  arrested 
and  won  her  imaginative  and  high-wrought  mind.  And 
thus  he,  who  to  another  might  have  proved  but  the  retired 
and  moody  student,  became  to  her  the  very  being  of  whom 
her  “maiden  meditation”  had  dreamed  —  the  master  and 
magician  of  her  fate. 

Aram  did  not  return  to  the  house  with  Madeline ;  he 


12b 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


accompanied  her  to  the  garden  gate,  and  then  taking 
leave  of  her,  bent  his  way  homeward.  He  had  gained 
the  entrance  of  the  little  valley  that  led  to  his  abode, 
when  he  saw  Walter  cross  his  path  at  a  short  distance. 
His  heart,  naturally  susceptible  to  kindly  emotion,  smote 
him  as  he  remarked  the  moody  listlessness  of  the  young 
man’s  step,  and  recalled  the  buoyant  lightness  it  was  once 
wont  habitually  to  wear.  He  quickened  his  pace,  and 
joined  Walter  before  the  latter  was  aware  of  his  presence. 

“Good  evening,”  said  he,  mildly;  “if  you  are  going 
my  way,  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  company.” 

“My  path  lies  yonder,”  replied  Walter,  somewhat  sul¬ 
lenly  ;  “  I  regret  that  it  is  different  from  yours.” 

“  In  that  case,”  said  Aram,  “  I  can  delay  my  return 
home,  and  will,  with  your  leave,  intrude  my  society  upon 
you  for  some  few  minutes.” 

Walter  bowed  his  head  in  reluctant  assent.  They 

walked  on  for  some  moments  without  speaking,  the  one 

unwilling,  the  other  seeking  an  occasion  to  break  the 

% 

silence. 

“  This,  to  my  mind,”  said  Aram  at  length,  “is the  most 
pleasing  landscape  in  the  whole  country;  observe  the 
bashful  water  stealing  away  among  the  woodlands.  Me- 
thinks  the  wave  is  endowed  with  an  instinctive  wisdom, 
that  it  thus  shuns  the  world.” 

“Rather,”  said  Walter,  “with  the  love  for  change 
which  exists  every  where  in  nature,  it  does  not  seek  the 
shade  until  it  has  passed  by  ‘towered  cities,’  and  ‘the 
busy  hum  of  men.’  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


121 


“  I  admire  the  shrewdness  of  your  reply,”  rejoined 
Aram  ;  “but  note  how  far  more  pure  and  lovely  are  its 
waters  in  these  retreats,  than  when  washing  the  walls  of 
the  reeking  town,  receiving  into  its  breast  the  taint  of  a 
thousand  pollutions,  vexed  by  the  sound,  and  stench,  and 
unholy  perturbation  of  men’s  dwelling-place.  Now  it 
glasses  only  what  is  high  and  beautiful  in  nature  —  the 
stars  or  the  leafy  banks.  The  wind  that  ruffles  it,  is 
clothed  with  perfumes  ;  the  rivulet  that  swells  it,  descends 
from  the  everlasting  mountains,  or  is  formed  by  the  rains 
of  heaven.  Believe  me,  it  is  the  type  of  a  life  that  glides 
from  the  weariness  and  fretful  turmoil  of  the  world, 

‘No  flattery,  hate,  or  envy  lodgeth  there, 

‘There  no  suspicion  walled  in  proved  steel, 

‘Yet  fearful  of  the  arms  herself  doth  wear. 

» 

‘  Pride  is  not  there ;  no  tyrant  there  we  feel !  ’  ”  * 

“  I  will  not  cope  with  you  in  simile,  or  in  poetry,”  said 
Walter,  as  his  lip  curved ;  “it  is  enough  for  me  to  think 
that  life  should  be  spent  in  action.  I  hasten  to  prove  if 
my  judgment  be  erroneous.” 

“  Are  you,  then,  about  to  leave  us  ?  ”  inquired  Aram. 

“  Yes,  within  a  few  days.” 

“Indeed,  I  regret  to  hear  it.” 

The  answer  sounded  jarringly  on  the  irritated  nerves 
of  the  disappointed  rival. 

“You  do  me  more  honor  than  I  desire,”  said  he,  “in 
interesting  yourself,  however  lightly,  in  my  schemes  or 
fortune  !  ” 


I.  — 11 


*  Phineas  Fletcher. 


122 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Young  man,”  replied  Aram  coldly,  “  I  never  see  the 
impetuous  and  yearning  spirit  of  youth  without  a  certain, 
and  it  may  be,  a  painful  interest.  IIow  feeble  is  the 
chance,  that  its  hopes  will  be  fulfilled  !  Enough,  if  it 
lose  not  all  its  loftier  aspirings,  as  well  as  its  brighter 
expectations.” 

Nothing  more  aroused  the  proud  and  fiery  temper  of 
Walter  Lester  than  the  tone  of  superior  wisdom  and 
superior  age,  which  his  rival  assumed  towards  him.  More 
and  more  displeased  with  his  present  companion,  he 
answered  in  no  conciliatory  tone,  “  I  cannot  but  consider 
the  warning  and  the  fears  of  one,  neither  my  relation  nor 
my  friend,  in  the  light  of  a  gratuitous  affront.” 

Aram  smiled  as  he  answered, 

“  There  is  no  occasion  for  resentment.  Preserve  this 
hot  spirit,  and  high  self-confidence,  till  you  return  again 
to  these  scenes,  and  I  shall  be  at  once  satisfied  and 
corrected.” 

“  Sir,”  said  Walter,  coloring,  and  irritated  more  by  the 
smile  than  the  words  of  his  rival,  “  I  am  not  aware  by 
what  right  or  on  what  ground  you  assume  towards  me 
the  superiority,  not  only  of  admonition  but  reproof.  My 
uncle’s  preference  towards  you  gives  you  no  authority  over 
me.  That  preference  I  do  not  pretend  to  share.” — ne 
paused  for  a  moment,  thinking  Aram  might  hasten  to 
reply ;  but  as  the  student  walked  on  with  his  usual  calm¬ 
ness  of  demeanor,  he  added,  stung  by  the  indifference 
which  he  attributed,  not  altogether  without  truth,  to  dis¬ 
dain,  “And  since  you  have  taken  upon  yourself  to  cau- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


123 


tion  me,  and  to  forebode  my  inability  to  resist  the  conta¬ 
mination,  as  you  would  term  it,  of  the  world,  I  tell  you, 
that  it  may  be  happy  for  you  to  bear  so  clear  a  conscience, 
so  untouched  a  spirit  as  that  which  I  now  boast,  and 
with  which  I  trust  in  God  and  my  own  soul  I  shall  return 
to  my  birth-place.  It  is  not  the  holy  only  that  love 
solitude ;  and  men  may  shun  the  world  from  another 
motive  than  that  of  philosophy.” 

It  was  now  Aram’s  turn  to  feel  resentment,  and  this 
was  indeed  an  insinuation  not  only  unwarrantable  in 
itself,  but  one  which  a  man  of  so  peaceable  and  guileless 
a  life,  affecting  even  an  extreme  and  rigid  austerity  of 
morals,  might  well  be  tempted  to  repel  with  scorn  and 
indignation  ;  and  Aram,  however  meek  and  forbearing 
in  general,  testified  in  this  instance  that  his  wonted  gen¬ 
tleness  arose  from  no  lack  of  man’s  natural  spirit.  He 
laid  his  hand  commandingly  on  young  Lester’s  shoulder, 
and  surveyed  his  countenance  with  a  dark  and  menacing 
frown. 

“  Boy  !  ”  said  he,  “  were  there  meaning  in  your  words, 
I  should  (mark  me  ! )  avenge  the  insult ;  —  as  it  is,  I  des¬ 
pise  it.  Go !  ” 

So  high  and  lofty  was  Aram’s  manner  —  so  majestic 
was  the  sternness  of  his  rebuke,  and  the  dignity  of  his 
bearing,  as  he  nowT  waving  his  hand  turned  away,  that 
Walter  lost  his  self-possession,  and  stood  fixed  to  the 
spot,  absorbed,  and  humbled  from  his  late  anger.  It  was 
not  till  Aram  had  moved  with  a  slow  step  several  paces 
backward  towards  his  home,  that  the  bold  and  haughty 


124 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


temper  of  the  young  man  returned  to  his  aid.  Ashamed 
of  himself  for  the  momentary  weakness  he  had  betrayed, 
and  burning  to  redeem  it,  he  hastened  after  the  stately 
form  of  his  rival,  and  planting  himself  full  in  his  path, 
said  in  a  voice  half  choked  with  contending  emotions, 

“  Hold  !  —  you  have  given  me  the  opportunity  I  have 
long  desired  ;  you  yourself  have  now  broken  that  peace 
which  existed  between  us,  and  which  to  me  was  more 
bitter  than  wormwood.  You  have  dared, —  yes,  dared  to 
use  threatening  language  towards  me.  I  call  on  you  to 
fulfil  your  threat.  I  tell  you  that  I  meant,  I  designed,  I 
thirsted  to  affront  you.  Now  resent  my  purposed  —  pre¬ 
meditated  affront  as  you  will  and  can  !  ” 

There  was  something  remarkable  in  the  contrasted 
figures  of  the  rivals,  as  they  now  stood  fronting  each 
other.  The  elastic  and  vigorous  form  of  Walter  Lester, 
his  sparkling  eyes,  his  sun-burnt  and  glowing  cheek,  his 
clenched  hands,  and  his  whole  frame  alive  and  eloquent 
with  the  energy,  the  heat,  the  hasty  courage,  and  fiery 
spirit  of  youth;  on  the  other  hand, —  the  bending  frame 
of  the  student,  gradually  rising  into  the  dignity  of  its  full 
height  —  his  pale  cheek,  in  which  the  wan  hues  neither 
deepened  nor  waned,  his  large  eye  raised  to  meet  Walter^, 
blight,  steady,  and  yet  how  calm  !  Nothing  weak,  nothing 
irresolute  could  be  traced  in  that  form  —  or  that  lofty 
countenance  ;  yet  all  resentment  had  vanished  from  his 
aspect.  He  seemed  at  once  tranquil  and  prepared. 

“You  designed  to  affront  me  1”  said  he,  “it  is  well — 
it  is  a  noble  confession  ; — and  wherefore  ?  What  do  you 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


12* 


propose  to  gain  by  it  ?  —  a  man  whose  whole  life  is  peacev 
you  would  provoke  to  outrage  ?  Would  there  be  tri- 
umph  in  this,  or  disgrace?  —  A  man  whom  your  uncle 
honors  and  loves,  you  would  insult  without  cause  —  you 
would  waylay  —  you  would,  after  watching  and  creating 
your  opportunity,  entrap  into  defending  himself?  Is  this 
worthy  of  that  high  spirit  of  which  you  boasted?  —  is 
this  worthy  a  generous  anger,  or  a  noble  hatred  ?  Away  ! 
you  malign  yourself.  I  shrink  from  no  quarrel  —  why 
should  I  ?  I  have  nothiug  to  fear :  my  nerves  are  firm 

—  my  heart  is  faithful  to  my  will ;  my  habits  may  have 
diminished  my  strength,  but  it  is  yet  equal  to  that  of 
most  men.  As  to*  the  weapons  of  the  world  —  they  fall 
not  to  my  use.  I  might  be  excused  by  the  most  punctil¬ 
ious,  for  rejecting  what  becomes  neither  lgy  station  nor 
my  habits  of  life  :  but  I  learnt  this  much  from  books 
long  since,  ‘hold  thyself  prepared  for  all  things:’ — I 
am  so  prepared.  And  as  I  can  command  the  spirit,  I 
lack  not  the  skill,  to  defend  myself,  or  return  the  hostil¬ 
ity  of  another.”  As  Aram  thus  said,  he  drew  a  pistol 
from  his  bosom  ;  and  pointed  it  leisurely  towards  a  tree, 
at  the  distance  of  some  paces. 

“Look,”  said  he,  “you  note  that  small  discolored  and 
white  stain  in  the  bark — you  can  but  just  observe  it; 

—  he  who  can  send  a  bullet  through  that  spot,  need  not 
fear  to  meet  the  quarrel  which  he  seeks  to  avoid.” 

Walter  turned  mechanically,  and  indignant,  though 
silent,  towards  the  tree.  Aram  fired,  and  the  ball  pene- 
11* 


126 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


trated  the  centre  of  the  stain.  He  then  replaced  the 
pistol  in  his  bosom,  and  said  :  — 

“  Early  in  life  I  had  many  enemies,  and  I  taught  my¬ 
self  these  arts.  From  habit,  I  still  bear  about  me  the 
weapons  I  trust  and  pray  I  may  never  have  occasion  to 
use.  But  to  return. —  I  have  offendsd  you  —  I  have  in¬ 
curred  your  hatred  —  why  ?  What  are  my  sins  ?  ” 

“  Do  you  ask  the  cause  ?  ”  said  Walter,  speaking  be¬ 
tween  his  ground  teeth.  “  Have  you  not  traversed  my 
views  —  blighted  my  hopes  —  charmed  away  from  me  the 
affections  which  were  more  to  me  than  the  world,  and 
driven  me  to  wander  from  my  home  with  a  crushed  spirit, 
and  a  cheerless  heart.  Are  these  no  «ause  for  hate  ?  ” 

“  Have  I  done  this  ?  ”  said  Aram,  recoiling  and  evi¬ 
dently  and  powerfully  affected.  “  Have  I  so  injured  you  ? 
—  It  is  true!  I  know  it  —  I  perceive  it  —  I  read  your 
heart ;  and  —  bear  witness  heaven  !  —  I  felt  for  the  wound 
that  I,  but  with  no  guilty  hand,  inflict  upon  you.  Yet  be 
just :  —  ask  yourself,  have  I  done  aught  that  you  in  my 
case  would  have  left  undone  ?  Have  I  been  insolent  in 
triumph  or  haughty  in  success  ?  if  so,  hate  me,  nay,  spurn 
me  now.” 

Walter  turned  his  head  irresolutely  away. 

“  If  it  please  you,  that  I  accuse  myself,  in  that  I,  a  man 
seared  and  lone  at  heart,  presumed  to  come  within  the 
pale  of  human  affections  ;  —  that  I  exposed  myself  to 
cross  another’s  better  and  brighter  hopes,  or  dared  to 
soften  my  fate  with  the  tender  and  endearing  ties  that  are 
meet  alone  for  a  more  genial  and  youthful  nature  j  —  if  it 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


121 


please  yon  that  I  accuse  and  curse  myself  for  this  — that 
I  yielded  to  it  with  pain  and  with  self-reproach  —  that  I 
shall  think  hereafter  of  what  I  unconsciously  cost  you 
with  remorse  —  then  be  consoled  !  ” 

“  It  is  enough,”  said  Walter;  “let  us  part.  I  leave 
you  with  more  soreness  at  my  late  haste  than  I  will  ac¬ 
knowledge,  let  that  content  you  ;  for  myself,  I  ask  for  no 
apology  or - ” 

“But  you  shall  have  it  amply,”  interrupted  Aram, 
advancing  with  a  cordial  openness  of  mien  not  usual  to 
him.  “I  was  all  to  blame;  I  should  have  remembered 
you  were  an  injured  man,  and  suffered  you  to  have  said 
all  you  would.  Words  at  best  are  but  a  poor  vent  for  a 
wronged  and  burning  heart.  It  shall  be  so  in  future, 
speak  your  will,  attack,  upbraid,  taunt  me,  I  will  bear  it 
all.  And  indeed,  even  to  myself  there  sfcems  some  witch¬ 
craft,  some  glamoury  in  what  has  chanced.  What !  I 
favored  wrhere  you  love  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  It  might  teach 
the  vainest  to  forswear  vanity.  You,  the  young,  the 
buoyant,  the  fresh,  the  beautiful?  —  And  I,  wdio  have 
passed  the  glory  and  zest  of  life  between  dusty  walls ;  I 
who  —  well,  well,  fate  laughs  at  probabilities  !  ” 

Aram  now  seemed  relapsing  into  one  of  his  more 
abstracted  moods  ;  he  ceased  to  speak  aloud,  but  his  lips 
moved,  and  his  eyes  grew  fixed  in  reverie  on  the  ground. 
Walter  gazed  at  him  for  some  moments  with  mixed  and 
contending  sensations.  Once  more,  resentment  and  the. 
bitter  wrrath  of  jealousy  had  faded  back  into  the  remoter 
depths  of  his  mind,  and  a  certain  interest  for  his  singular 


128 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


rival,  despite  of  himself,  crept  into  his  breast.  But  this 
mysterious  and  fitful  nature,  was  it  one  in  which  the  de¬ 
voted  Madeline  would  certainly  find  happiness  and  repose  ? 
—  would  she  never  regret  her  choice  ?  This  question  ob¬ 
truded  itself  upon  him,  and  while  he  sought  to  answer  it, 
^ram,  regaining  his  composure,  turned  abruptly  and 
offered  him  his  hand.  Walter  did  not  accept  it,  he  bowed 
with  a  cold  respect.  “  I  cannot  give  my  hand  without 
my  heart,”  said  he  :  “  we  were  foes  just  now  ;  we  are  not 
friends  yet.  I  am  unreasonable  in  this  I  know,  but  —  ” 

“  Be  it  so,”  interrupted  Aram  ;  “  I  understand  you. 
I  press  my  good-will  on  you  no  more.  When  this  pang 
is  forgotten,  when  this  wound  is  healed,  and  when  you 
will  have  learned  more  of  him  who  is  now  your  rival,  we 
may  meet  again  with  other  feelings  on  your  side.” 

Thus  they  parted,  and  the  solitary  lamp  which  for 
weeks  past  had  been  quenched  at  the  wholesome  hour  in 
the  student’s  home,  streamed  from  the  casement  through¬ 
out  the  whole  of  that  night ;  was  it  a  witness  of  the 
calm  and  learned  vigil,  or  of  the  unresting  heart  ? 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


129 


CHAPTER  XI 

TIIE  FAMILY  SUPPER. —  THE  TWO  SISTERS  IN  THEIR  CHAM¬ 
BER. - A  MISUNDERSTANDING  FOLLOWED  BY  A  CONFES¬ 

SION. —  WALTER’S  APPROACHING  DEPARTURE  AND  THE 
CORPORAL’S  BEHAVIOR  THEREON. —  THE  CORPORAL’S  FA¬ 
VORITE  INTRODUCED  TO  THE  READER. - THE  CORPORAL 

PROVES  HIMSELF  A  SUBTLE  DIPLOMATIST 


- “So  we  grew  together 

Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 

But  yet  an  union  in  partition.” 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

“  The  corporal  had  not  taken  his  measures  so  badly  in  this 
stroke  of  artilleryship.”  Tristram  Shandy. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Walter  returned  home, 
the  little  family  were  assembled  at  the  last  and  lightest 
meal  of  the  day ;  Ellinor  silently  made  room  for  her 
cousin  beside  her,  and  that  little  kindness  touched  Walter. 
“Why  did  I  not  love  her?”  thought  he,  and  he  spoke 
to  her  in  a  tone  so  affectionate,  that  it  made  her  heart 
thrill  with  delight.  Lester  was,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
pensive  of  the  group,  but  the  old  and  the  young  man 
exchanged  looks  of  restored  confidence,  which,  on  the 
part  of  the  former,  were  softened  by  a  pitying  tenderness. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  and  the  servants  gone, 
Lester  took  it  on  himself  to  break  to  the  sisters  the  in¬ 
tended  departure  of  their  cousin.  Madeline  received 

i 


130 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  news  with  painful  blushes,  and  a  certain  self-reproach ; 
for  even  where  a  woman  has  no  cause  to  blame  herself 
she,  in  these  cases,  feels  a  sort  of  remorse  at  the  unhap¬ 
piness  she  occasions.  But  Ellinor  rose  suddenly  and 
left  the  room. 

"And  now,”  said  Lester,  "London  will,  I  suppose,  be 
your  first  destination.  I  can  furnish  you  with  letters  to 
some  of  my  old  friends  there  :  merry  fellows  they  were 
once  :  you  must  take  care  of  the  prodigality  of  their 
wine.  There’s  John  Courtland  —  ah  !  a  seductive  dog  to 
drink  with.  Be  sure  and  let  me  know  how  honest  John 
looks,  and  what  he  says  of  me.  I  recollect  him  as  if  it 
were  yesterday ;  a  roguish  eye,  with  a  moisture  in  it ; 
full  cheeks ;  a  straight  nose ;  black  curled  hair ;  and 
teeth  as  even  as  dies: — honest  John  showed  his  teeth 
pretty  often,  too  :  ha,  ha  !  how  the  dog  loved  a  laugh  ! 
Well,  and  Peter  Hales  —  S/'r  Peter  now,  has  his  uncle’s 
baronetcy  —  a  generous  open-hearted  fellow  as  ever 
lived  —  will  ask  you  very  often  to  dinner  —  nay,  offer  you 
money  if  you  want  it :  but  take  care  he  does  not  lead  you 
into  extravagances  :  out  of  debt,  out  of  danger,  Walter. 
It  would  have  been  well  for  poor  Peter  Hales,  had  he 
remembered  that  maxim.  Often  and  often  have  I  been 
to  see  him  in  the  Marshalsea ;  but  he  was  the  heir  to 
good  fortunes,  though  his  relations  kept  him  close  ;  so  I 

suppose  he  is  well  off  now.  His  estates  lie  in - shire, 

on  your  road  to  London  ;  so,  if  he  is  at  his  country-seat, 
you  can  beat  up  his  quarters,  and  spend  a  month  or  so 
with  him  :  a  most  hospitable  fellow.” 


« 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


131 


With  these  little  sketches  of  his  cotemporaries,  the 
good  squire  endeavored  to  while  the  time  ;  taking,  it  is 
true,  some  pleasure  in  the  youthful  reminiscences  they 
excited,  but  chiefly  designing  to  enliven  the  melancholy 
of  his  nephew.  When,  however,  Madeline  had  retired, 
and  they  were  alone,  he  drew  his  chair  closer  to  Walter’s, 
and  changed  the  conversation  into  a  more  serious  and 
anxious  strain.  The  guardian  and  the  ward  sate  up  late 
that  night ;  and  when  Walter  retired  to  rest,  it  was  with 
a  heart  more  touched  by  his  unele’s  kindness,  than  his 
own  sorrows. 

But  we  are  not  about  to  close  the  day  without  a  glance 
at  the  chamber  which  the  two  sisters  held  in  common. 
The  night  was  serene  and  starlit,  and  Madeline  sate  by 
the  open  window,  leaning  her  face  upon  her  hand,  and 
gazing  on  the  lone  house  of  her  lover, -which  might  be 
seen  afar  across  the  landscape,  the  trees  sleeping  around 
it,  and  one  pale  and  steady  light  gleaming  from  its  lofty 
casement  like  a  star. 

“  He  has  broken  faith,”  said  Madeline  :  “  I  shall  chide 
him  for  this  to-morrow.  He  promised  me  the  light  should 
be  ever  quenched  before  this  hour.” 

“Nay,”  said  Ellinor  in  a  tone  somewhat  sharpened 
from  its  native  sweetness,  and  who  now  sate  up  in  the 
bed,  the  curtain  of  which  was  half  drawn  aside,  and  the 
soft  light  of  the  skies  rested  full  upon  her  rounded  neck 
and  youthfnl  countenance  — -  “  Nay,  Madeline,  do  not 
loiter  there  any  longer ;  the  air  grows  sharp  and  cold, 
and  the  dock  struck,  one,  several  minutes  since.  Comw 
sister,  come  ! y 


132 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  I  cannot  sleep,”  replied  Madeline,  sighing,  “  and 
think  that  yon  light  streams  upon  those  studies  which 
Aeal  the  healthful  hues  from  his  cheek,  and  the  very  life 
from  his  heart.” 

‘‘You  are  infatuated  —  you  are  bewitched  by  that 
man,”  said  Ellinor,  peevishly. 

“And  have  I  not  cause  —  ample  cause?”  returned 
Madeline,  with  all  a  girl’s  beautiful  enthusiasm,  as  the 
color  mantled  her  cheek,  and  gave  it  the  only  additional 
loveliness  it  could  receive.  “  When  he  speaks,  is  it  not 
like  music  ?  —  or  rather,  what  music  so  arrests  and  touch¬ 
es  the  heart?  Methinks  it  is  heaven  only  to  gaze  upon 
him  —  to  note  the  changes  of  that  majestic  countenance 
—  to  set  down  as  food  for  memory  every  look  and  every 
movement.  But  when  the  look  turns. to  me  —  when  the 
voice  utters  my  name,  ah !  Ellinor,  then  it  is  not  a  won¬ 
der  that  I  love  him  thus  much :  but  that  any  others 
should  think  they  have  known  love,  and  yet  not  loved 
him!  And,  indeed,  I  feel  assured  that  what  the  world 
calls  love,  is  not  my  love.  Are  there  more  Eugenes  in 
the  world  than  one  ?  Who  but  Eugene  could  be  loved 
as  I  love  ?  ” 

“What!  are  there  none  as  worthy?”  said  Ellinoi, 
half  smiling. 

“  Can  you  ask  it  ?  ”  answered  Madeline,  with  a  simple 
wonder  in  her  voice;  “whom  would  you  compare — com¬ 
pare  !  nay,  place  within  a  hundred  grades  of  the  height 
which  Eugene  Aram  holds  in  this  little  world  ?  ” 

“  This  is  folly  —  dotage  ;  ”  said  Ellinor  indignantly  ; 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


133 


•surely  there  are  others,  as  brave,  as  gentle,  as  kind, 
and  if  not  so  wise,  yet  more  fitted  for  the  world.” 

“Yon  mock  me,”  replied  Madeline,  incredulously; 
“  whom  could  you  select  ?  ” 

Ellinor  blushed  deeply  —  blushed  from  her  snowy  tem¬ 
ples  to  her  yet  whiter  bosom,  as  she  answered, 

“If  I  said  Walter  Lester,  could  you  deny  it  ?  ” 
“Walter  I  ”  repeated  Madeline,  “the  equal  of  Eugene 
Aram  1  ” 

“  Ay,  and  more  than  equal,”  said  Ellinor,  with  spirit, 
and  a  warm  and  angry  tone.  “And  indeed,  Madeline,” 
she  continued  after  a  pause,  “  I  lose  something  of  that 
respect,  which,  passing  a  sister’s  love,  I  have  always  borne 
towards  you,  when  I  see  the  unthinkiug  and  slavish 
idolatry  you  manifest  to  one,  who,  but  for  a  silver  tongue 
and  florid  words,  would  rather  want  attractions  than  be 
the  wonder  you  esteem  him.  Eie,  Madeline  !  I  blush  for 
you  when  you  speak,  it  is  unmaidenly  so  to  love  any  one  !  ” 
Madeline  rose  from  the  window,  but  the  angry  word 
died  on  her  lips  when  she  saw  that  Ellinor,  who  had 
worked  her  mind  beyond  her  self-control,  had  thrown 
herself  back  on  the  pillow,  and  now  sobbed  aloud. 

The  natural  temper  of  the  elder  sister  had  always  been 
much  more  calm  and  even  than  that  of  the  younger,  who 
united  with  her  vivacity  something  of  the  passionate 
caprice  and  fitfulness  of  her  sex.  And  Madeline’s  affec¬ 
tion  for  her  had  been  tinged  by  that  character  of  for¬ 
bearance  and  soothing,  which  a  superior  nature  often 
manifests  to  one  more  imperfect,  and  which  in  this 
I.— 12 


L34 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


instance  did  not  desert  her.  She  gently  closed  the  win¬ 
dow,  and,  gliding  to  the  bed,  threw  her  arms  round  her 
sister’s  neck,  and  kissed  away  her  tears  with  a  caressing 
fondness,  that,  if  Ellinor  resisted  for  one  moment,  she 
returned  with  equal  tenderness  the  next. 

“  Indeed,  dearest,”  said  Madeline,  gently,  “  I  cannot 
guess  how  I  hurt  you,  and  still  less,  how  Eugene  has 
offended  you  ?  ” 

“  He  has  offended  me  in  nothing,”  replied  Ellinor, 
still  weeping,  “  if  he  has  not  stolen  away  all  your  affec¬ 
tion  from  me.  But  I  was  a  foolish  girl,  forgive  me,  as  you 
always  do  ;  and  at  this  time  I  need  your  kindness,  for  I 
cm  very  —  very  unhappy.” 

“Unhappy,  dearest  Nell,  and  why?” 

Ellinor  wept  on  without  answering. 

Madeline  persisted  in  pressing  for  a  reply ;  and  at 
(ength  her  sister  sobbed  out : 

“  I  know  that  —  that  —  Walter  only  has  eyes  for  you, 
and  a  heart  for  you,  who  neglect,  who  despise  his  love  ; 
and  I  —  I  —  but  no  matter,  he  is  going  to  leave  us,  and 
of  me  —  poor  me,  he  will  think  no  more  !  ” 

Ellinor’s  attachment  to  their  cousin,  Madeline  had  long 
half  suspected,  and  she  had  often  rallied  her  sister  upon 
it ;  indeed  it  might  have  been  this  suspicion  which  made 
her  at  the  first  steel  her  breast  against  Walter’s  evident 
preference  to  herself.  But  Ellinor  had  never  till  now 
seriously  confessed  how  much  her  heart  was  affected  ;  and 
Madeline,  in  the  natural  engrossment  of  her  own  ardent 
and  devoted  love,  had  not  of  late  spared  much  observa- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


135 


tion  to  the  tokens  of  her  sister’s.  She  was  therefore 
dismayed,  if  not  surprised,  as  she  now  perceived  the 
cause  of  the  peevishness  Ellinor  had  just  manifested,  and 
by  the  nature  of  the  love  she  felt  herself,  she  judged,  and 
perhaps  somewhat  overrated,  the  anguish  that  Ellinor 
endured. 

She  strove  to  comfort  her  by  all  the  arguments  which 
the  fertile  ingenuity  of  kindness  could  invent ;  she  proph¬ 
esied  Walter’s  speedy  return,  with  his  boyish  disappoint¬ 
ments  forgotten,  and  with  eyes  no  longer  blinded  to  the 
attractions  of  one  sister,  by  a  bootless  fancy  for  another. 
And  though  Ellinor  interrupted  her  from  time  to  time 
with  assertions,  now  of  Walter’s  eternal  constancy  to  his 
present  idol ;  now,  with  yet  more  vehement  declarations 
of  the  certainty  of  his  finding  new  objects  for  his  affec- 
tions  in  new  scenes  ;  she  yet  admitted,  by  little  and  little, 
the  persuasive  power  of  Madeline  to  creep  into  her  heart, 
and  brighten  away  its  griefs  with  hope,  till  at  last,  with 

the  tears  yet  wet  on  her  cheek,  she  fell  asleep  in  her 

» 

sister’s  arms. 

And  Madeline,  though  she  would  not  stir  from  her 
post  lest  the  movement  would  awaken  her  sister,  was  yet 
prevented  from  closing  her  eyes  in  a  similar  repose  ;  ever 
and  anon  she  breathlessly  and  gently  raised  herself  to 
steal  a  glimpse  of  that  solitary  light  afar ;  and  ever,  as 
she  looked,  the  ray  greeted  her  eye§  with  an  unswerving 
and  melancholy  stillness,  till  the  dawn  crept  greyly  over 
the  heavens,  and  that  speck  of  light,  holier  to  her  than 
the  stars,  faded  also  with  them  beneath  the  broader  lustro 
of  the  day. 


136 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  next  week  was  passed  in  preparations  for  Walter’s 
departure.  At  that  time,  and  in  that  distant  part  of  the 
country,  it  was  greatly  the  fashion  among  the  younger 
travellers  to  perform  their  excursions  on  horseback,  and 
it  was  this  method  of  conveyance  that  Walter  preferred. 
The  best  steed  in  the  squire’s  stables  was  therefore  appro¬ 
priated  to  his  service,  and  a  strong  black  horse  with  a 
Roman  nose  and  a  long  tail,  was  consigned  to  the  mas- 
tery  of  Corporal  Bunting.  The  squire  was  delighted 
that  his  nephew  had  secured  such  an  attendant.  For 
the  soldier,  though  odd  and  selfish,  was  a  man  of  some 
sense  and  experience,  and  Lester  thought  such  qualities 
might  not  be  without  their  use  to  a  young  master,  new 
to  the  common  frauds  and  daily  usages  of  the  world  he 
was  about  to  enter. 

As  for  Bunting  himself,  he  covered  his  secret  exulta¬ 
tion  at  the  prospect  of  change,  and  board-wages,  with 
the  cool  semblance  of  a  man  sacrificing  his  wishes  to  his 
affections.  He  made  it  his  peculiar  study  to  impress  upon 
the  squire’s  mind  the  extent  of  the  sacrifice  he  was  about 
to  make.  The  bit  cot  had  been  just  white-washed,  the 
pet  cat  just  lain  in  ;  then  too,  who  would  dig,  and  gather 
seeds  in  the  garden,  defend  the  plants,  (plants !  the  cor¬ 
poral  could  scarcely  count  a  dozen,  and  nine  out  of  them 
were  cabbages !)  from  the  impending  frosts  ?  It  was 
exactly,  too,  the  time  of  the  year  when  the  rheumatism 
paid  flying  visits  to  the  bones  and  loius  of  the  worthy 
corporal;  and  to  think  of  his  “galavanting  about  the 
country,”  when  he  ought  to  be  guarding  against  that  sly 
foe  the  lumbago,  in  the  fortress  of  his  chimney  corner  I 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


137 


To  all  these  murmurs  and  insinuations  the  good  Lester 
seriously  inclined,  not  with  the  less  sympathy,  that  they 
invariably  ended  in  the  corporaPs  slapping  his  manly 
thigh,  and  swearing  that  he  loved  Master  Walter  like 
gunpowder,  and  that  were  it  twenty  times  as  much,  he 
would  cheerfully  do  it  for  the  sake  of  his  handsome 
young  honor.  Ever  at  this  peroration,  the  eyes  of  the 
squire  began  to  twinkle,  and  new  thanks  were  given  to 
the  veteran  for  his  disinterested  affection,  and  new  pro¬ 
mises  pledged  him  in  inadequate  return. 

The  pious  Dealtry  felt  a  little  jealousy  at  the  trust  im¬ 
parted  to  his  friend.  He  halted,  on  his  return  from  his 
farm,  by  the  spruce  stile  which  led  to  the  demesne  of  the 
corporal,  and  eyed  the  warrior  somewhat  sourly,  as  he 
now  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  sate  without  his  door, 
arranging  his  fishing-tackle  and  flies,  in  various  little 
papers,  which  he  carefully  labeled  by  the  help  of  a  stunt¬ 
ed  pen  which  had  seen  at  least  as  much  service  as  himself. 

“Well,  neighbor  Bunting,”  said  the  little  landlord, 
leaning  over  the  stile,  but  not  passing  its  boundary,  “  and 
when  do  you  go  ?  —  you  will  have  wet  weather  of  it 
(looking  up  to  the  skies)  —  you  must  take  care  of  the 
rnmatiz/  At  your  age  it  is  no  trifle,  eh  —  hem.” 

“  My  age  !  should  like  to  know  —  what  mean  by  that  ? 
my  age  indeed  !  —  augh  !  —  bother  !  ”  grunted  Bunting, 
looking  up  from  his  occupation.  Peter  chuckled  inly  at 
the  corporaPs  displeasure,  and  continued,  as  in  an  apolo¬ 
getic  tone, 

'‘Oh,  I  ax  your  pardon,  neighbor.  I  don’t  mean  to 
12* 


138 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


say  yon  are  too  old  to  travel.  Why  there  was  Hal 
Whittol,  eiglity-two  come  next  Michaelmas,  took  a  trip 
to  Lunnun  last  year  — 

“For  young  and  old,  the  stout — the  poorly  — 

The  eye  of  God  be  on  them  surely.” 

“  Bother !  ”  said  the  corporal,  turning  round  on  h. 
seat 

“  And  what  do  you  intend  doing  with  the  brindled 
cat?  put’un  up  in  the  saddle-bags?  You  won’t  surely 
have  the  heart  to  leave’un.” 

“As  to  that,”  quoth  the  corporal,  sighing,  “the  poor 
dumb  animal  makes  me  sad  to  think  on’t.”  And  putting 
down  his  fish-hooks,  he  stroked  the  sides  of  an  enormous 
cat,  who  now,  with  tail  on  end,  and  back  bowed  up,  and 
uttering  her  lenes  susurros  —  anglice,  purr; — rubbed 
herself  to  and  fro,  athwart  the  corporal’s  legs.  . 

“  What  staring  there  for  ?  won’t  ye  step  in,  man  ? 
Can  climb  the  stile  I  suppose  ?  —  augh  !  ” 

•  “No  thank’ye,  neighbor.  I  do  very  well  here,  that  is 
if  you  can  hear  me  ;  your  deafness  is  not  so  troublesome 
as  it  was  last  win —  ” 

“  Bother  1”  interrupted  the  corporal,  in  a  voice  that 
made  the  little  landlord  start  bolt  upright  from  the  easy 
confidence  of  his  position.  Nothing  on  earth  so  offended 
the  perpendicular  Jacob  Bunting,  as  any  insinuation  of 
increasing  years  or  growing  infirmities ;  but  at  this  mo¬ 
ment,  as  he  meditated  putting  Dealtry  to  some  use,  he 
prudently  conquered  the  gathering  anger,  and  added,  like 
the  man  of  the  world  he  justly  plumed  himself  on  being 
—  in  a  voice  gentle  as  a  dying  howl, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


139 


“What  ’fraid  on?  come  in,  there's  good  fellow,  wain 
to  speak  to  ye.  Come  do — a-u-g-h  ?  ”  the  last  sound 
being  prolonged  into  one  of  unutterable  coaxingness,  and 
accompanied  with  a  beck  of  the  hand  and  a  wheedling 
wink. 

These  allurements  the  good  Peter  could  not  resist  —  he 
clambered  the  stile,  and  seated  himself  on  the  bench  be¬ 
side  the  corporal. 

“There  now,  fine  fellow,  fit  for  the  forty-second  ;  ”  said 
Bunting,  clapping  him  on  the  back.  “Well,  and  —  a-nd 
—  a  beautiful  cat,  isn’t  her  ?  ” 

“  Ah  !  ”  said  Peter  very  shortly  —  for  tnough  a  remark¬ 
ably  mild  man,  Peter  did  not  love  cats :  moreover,  we 
must  now  inform  the  reader,  that  the  cat  of  Jacob  Bun¬ 
ting  was  one  more  feared  than  respected  throughout  the 
village.  The  corporal  was  a  cunning  teacher  of  all  ani¬ 
mals.:  he  could  learn  goldfinches  the  use  of  the  musket ; 
dogs,  the  art  of  the  broadsword ;  horses,  to  dance  horn¬ 
pipes  and  pick  pockets ;  and  he  had  relieved  the  ennui 
of  his  solitary  moments  by  imparting  sundry  accomplish¬ 
ments  to  the  ductile  genius  of  his  cat.  Under  his  tuition, 
Puss  had  learned  to  fetch  and  carry ;  to  turn  over  head 
and  tail,  like  a  tumbler ;  to  run  up  your  shoulder  when 
you  least  expected  it ;  to  fly,  as  if  she  were  mad,  at  any 
one  upon  whom  the  corporal  thought  fit  to  set  her ;  and, 
above  all,  to  rob  larders,  shelves,  and  tables,  and  bring 
the  produce  to  the  corporal,  who  never  failed  to  consider 
snch  stray  waifs  lawful  manorial  acquisitions.  These 
little  feline  cultivations  of  talent,  however  delightful  to 


140 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  corporal,  and  creditable  to  his  powers  of  teaching 
the  young  idea  how  to  shoot,  had  nevertheless,  since  the 
truth  must  be  told,  rendered  the  corporal’s  cat  a  proverb 
and  byword  throughout  the  neighborhood.  Never  was 
cat  in  such  bad  odor :  and  the  dislike  in  which  it  was 
held  was  wonderfully  increased  by  terror ;  for  the  crea¬ 
ture  was  singularly  large  and  robust,  and  withal  of  so 
courageous  a  temper,  that  if  you  attempted  to  resist  its 
invasions  of  your  property,  it  forthwith  set  up  its  back, 
put  down  its  ears,  opened  its  mouth,  and  bade  you  fully 
comprehend  that  what  it  feloniously  seized,  it  would  gal¬ 
lantly  defend.  More  than  one  gossip  in  the  village  had 
this  notable  cat  hurried  into  premature  parturition,  as  on 
descending  at  day-break  into  her  kitchen,  the  dame  would 
descry  the  animal  perched  on  the  dresser,  having  entered, 
God  knows  how,  and  gleaming  upon  her  with  its  great 
green  eyes,  and  a  malignant,  brownie  expression  of 
countenance. 

Various  deputations  had  indeed,  from  time  to  time, 
arrived  at  the  corporal’s  cottage,  requesting  the  death, 
expulsion,  or  perpetual  imprisonment  of  the  favorite. 
But  the  stout  corporal  received  them  grimly,  and  dismiss¬ 
ed  them  gruffly ;  and  the  cat  still  went  on  waxing  in  size 
and  wickedness,  and  baffling,  as  if  inspired  by  the  devil, 
the  various  gins  and  traps  set  for  its  destruction.  But 
never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  greater  disturbance  and  per¬ 
turbation  in  the  little  hamlet,  than  when,  some  three 
weeks  since,  the  corporal’s  cat  was  known  to  be  brought 
to  bed,  and  safely  del  vered  of  a  numerous  offspring 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


141 


The  village  saw  itself  overrun  with  a  race  and  a  perpe¬ 
tuity  of  corporal’s  cats  !  Perhaps,  too,  their  teacher 
growing  more  expert  by  practice,  the  descendants  might 
attain  to  even  greater  accomplishments  than  their  nefari¬ 
ous  progenitor.  No  longer  did  the  faint  hope  of  being 
delivered  from  their  tormentor  by  an  untimely  or  even 
natural  death,  occur  to  the  harassed  Grassdalians.  Death 
was  an  incident  natural  to  one  cat,  however  vivacious, 
but  here  was  a  dynasty  of  cats !  Principes  mortales, 
respublica  eternal 

Now  the  corporal  loved  this  creature  better,  yes  better 
than  any  thing  in  the  world,  except  travelling  and  board- 
wages  ;  and  he  was  sorely  perplexed  in  his  mind  how  he 
should  be  able  to  dispose  of  her  safely  in  his  absence. 
He  was  aware  of  the  general  enmity  she,  had  inspired, 
and  trembled  to  anticipate  its  probable  result,  when  he 
was  no  longer  by  to  afford  her  shelter  and  protection. 
The  squire  had,  indeed,  offered  her  an  asylum  at  the 
manor-house  ;  but  the  squire’s  cook  was  the  cat’s  most 
embittered  enemy ;  and  who  can  answer  for  the  peace- 
aole  behavior  of  his  cook  ?  The  corporal,  therefore, 
with  a  reluctant  sigh,  renounced  the  friendly  offer,  and 
after  lying  awake  three  nights,  and  turning  over  in  his 
own  mind  the  character^,  consciences,  and  capabilities  of 
all  his  neighbors,  he  came  at  last  to  the  conviction  that 
there  was  no  one  with  whom  he  could  so  safely  entrust 
his  cat  as  Peter  Dealtry.  It  is  true,  as  wre  said  before, 
that  Peter  was  no  lover  of  cats,  and  the  task  of  persuad¬ 
ing  him  to  afford  board  and  lodging  to  a  cat,  of  all  cats 


1  42 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  most  odious  and  malignant,  was  therefore  no  easy 
matter.  But  to  a  man  of  the  world,  what  intrigue  is 
impossible  ? 

The  finest  diplomatist  in  Europe  might  have  taken  a 
lesson  from  the  corporal,  as  he  now  proceeded  earnestly 
towards  the  accomplishment  of  his  project. 

He  took  the  cat,  which  by  the  by  we  forgot  to  say  that 
he  had  thought  fit  to  christen  after  himself,  and  to  honor 
with  a  name,  somewhat  lengthy  for  a  cat  (but  indeed  this 
was  no  ordinary  cat !)  viz.  Jacobina.  He  took  Jacobina 
then,  we  say,  upon  his  lap,  and  stroking  her  brindled 
sides  with  great  tenderness,  he  bade  Dealtry  remark  how 
singularly  quiet  the  animal  was  in  its  manners.  Nay,  he 
was  not  contented  until  Peter  himself  had  patted  her 
with  a  timorous  hand,  and  had  reluctantly  submitted  the 
said  hand  to  the  honor  of  being  licked  by  the  cat  in  re¬ 
turn.  Jacobina,  who,  to  do  her  justice,  was  always  meek 
enough  in  the  presence,  and  at  the  will  of  her  master, 
was,  fortunately  this  day,  on  her  very  best  behavior. 

“  Them  dumb  animals  be  mighty  grateful,”  quoth  the 
corporal. 

“Ah  !  ”  rejoined  Peter,  wiping  his  hand  with  his  pock¬ 
et-handkerchief. 

“But,  Lord  !  what  scandal  there  be  in  the  world  !” 

“Though  slander’s  breath  may  raise  a  storm, 

It  quickly  does  decay !  ” 

muttered  Peter. 

“  Yery  well,  very  true;  sensible  verses  those,”  said 
the  corporal,  approvingly ;  “  and  yet  mischief’s  often 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


143 


done  before  the  amends  come.  Body  o’  me,  it  makes  a 
man  sick  of  his  kind,  ashamed  to  belong  to  the  race  of 
men  to  see  the  envy  that  abounds  in  this  here  sublunary 
wale  of  tears  !  ”  said  the  corporal,  lifting  up  his  eyes. 

Peter  stared  at  him  with  open  mouth :  the  hypocrit¬ 
ical  rascal  continued,  after  a  pause, — 

“  Now  there’s  Jacobina,  ’cause  she’s  a  good  cat,  a 
laithful  servant,  the  whole  village  is  against  her ;  such 
lies  as  they  tell  on  her,  such  wappers,  you’d  think  she  was 
the  devil  in  garnet !  I  grant,  I  grant,”  added  the  cor¬ 
poral,  in  a  tone  of  apologetic  candor,  “that  she’s  wild, 
saucy,  knows  her  friends  from  her  foes,  steals  Goody 
Solomon’s  butter ;  but  what  then  ?  Goody  Solomon’s 
d — d  b — h  !  Goody  Solomon  sold  beer  in  opposition  to 
you,  set  up  a  public  ;  — you  do  not  like  Goody  Solomon, 
Peter  Dealtry  ?  ” 

“  If  that  were  all  Jacobina  had  done  !  ”  said  the  land¬ 
lord,  grinning. 

“All!  what  else  did  she  do?  Why  she  eat  up  John 
Tomkin’s  canary-bird  ;  and  did  not  John  Tomkins,  saucy 
rascal,  say  you  could  not  sing  better  nor  a  raven  ?  ” 

“  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  poor  creature  for 
that,”  said  Peter,  stroking  the  cat  of  his  own  accord. 
“  Cats  will  eat  birds,  ’tis  the  ’spensation  of  Providence. 
Bat  what !  corporal !  ”  and  Peter  hastily  withdrawing 
his  hand,  hurried  it  into  his  breeches  pocket  —  “but 
what !  did  not  she  scratch  Joe  Webster’s  little  boy’s  hand 
into  ribbons,  because  the  boy  tried  to  prevent  her  run¬ 
ning  off  with  a  ball  of  string  ?  ” 


144 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“And,  well,”  grunted  the  corporal,  “that  was  not 
Jacobina’s  doing,  that  was  my  doing.  I  wanted  the 
string  —  offered  to  pay  a  penny  for  it  —  think  of  that !  ” 

“It  was  priced  three  pence  ha’penny,”  said  Peter. 

“  Augh-baugh  1  you  would  not  pay  Joe  Webster  all  he 
asks  !  What’s  the  use  of  being  a  man  of  the  world, 
unless  one  makes  one’s  tradesmen  bate  a  bit  ?  Bargain¬ 
ing  is  no  cheating,  I  hope  ?  ” 

“  God  forbid  !  ”  said  Peter. 

“But  as  to  the  bit  string,  Jacobina  took  it  solely  for 
your  sake.  Ah  she  did  not  think  you  were  to  turn 
against  her  I  ” 

So  saying,  the  corporal  got  up,  walked  into  his  house, 
and  presently  came  back  with  a  little  net  in  his  hand. 

“  There,  Peter,  net  for  you  to  hold  lemons.  Thank 
Jacobina  for  that ;  she  got  the  string.  Says  I  to  her  one 
day,  as  I  was  sitting,  as  I  might  be  now,  without  the  door, 
‘Jacobina,  Peter  Dealtry’s  a  good  fellow,  and  he  keeps 
his  lemons  in  a  bag  :  bad  habit, —  get  mouldy, —  we’ll 
make  him  a  net :  ’  and  Jacobina  purred,  (stroke  the  poor 
creature,  Peter  !)  —  so  Jacobina  and  I  took  a  walk,  and 
when  we  came  to  Joe  Webster’s  I  pointed  out  the  ball 
o’ twine  to  her.  So,  for  your  sake,  Peter,  she  got  into 
this  here  scrape  —  augh.” 

“Ah!”  quoth  Peter  laughing,  “poor  Puss!  poor 
Pussy  !  poor  little  Pussy  !  ” 

“And  ffow,  Peter,”  said  the  corporal,  taking  his 
friend’s  hand,  “I  am  going  to  prove  friendship  to  you  — 
going  to  do  you  great  favor.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


145 


“  Aha  !  ”  said  Peter,  “  my  good  friend,  I’m  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  I  know  your  kind  heart,  but  I  really 
don’t  want  any  ”  — 

“  Bother  !  ”  cried  the  corporal,  “  I’m  not  the  man  as 
makes  much  of  doing  a  friend  a  kindness.  Hold  jaw  ! 
tell  you  what, —  tell  you  what;  am  going  away  on  Wed¬ 
nesday  at  day-break,  and  in  my  absence  you  shall  —  ” 
“What?  my  good  corporal.” 

“  Take  charge  of  Jacobina  !  ” 

“  Take  charge  of  the  devil  I  ”  cried  Peter. 

“  Augh  !  —  baugh  !  —  what  words  are  those  ?  Listen 
to  me.” 

“  I  won’t  1  ” 

“  You  shall  1  ” 

“  I’ll  be  d — d  if  I  do  1  ”  quoth  Peter  sturdily.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  been  known  to  swear  since  he  was 
parish  clerk. 

“Very  well,  very  well  1  ”  said  the  corporal  chucking 
up  his  chin  ;  “  Jacobina  can  take  care  of  herself!  Jacob- 
iua  knows  her  friends  and  her  foes  as  well  as  her  master. 
Jacobina  never  injures  her  friends,  never  forgives  foes. 
Look  to  yourself!  look  to  yourself!  insult  my  cat,  insult 
me  !  Swear  at  Jacobina,  indeed  !  ” 

“  If  she  steals  my  cream  !  ”  cried  Peter  — 

“  Did  she  ever  steal  your  cream  ?  ” 

“  No  !  but,  if  —  ” 

“  Did  she  ever  steal  your  cream  ?  ” 

“I  can’t  say  she  ever  did.” 

“  Or  any  thing  else  of  yours  ?  ” 

13 


K 


146 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


‘Not  tnat  I  know  of;  but — ” 

“  Never  too  late  to  mend.” 

“If—  ” 

“Will  you  listen  to  me  or  not?” 

“Well.” 

“  You’ll  listen?” 

“  Yes.” 

“  Know  then,  that  I  wanted  to  do  you  kindness.” 

“  Humph  !  ” 

“  Hold  jaw  !  I  taught  Jacobina  all  she  knows.” 

“  More’s  the  pity  !  ” 

“Hold  jaw  1  I  taught  her  to  respect  her  friends — . 
never  to  commit  herself  in -doors  —  never  to  steal  at 
home  —  never  to  fly  at  home  —  never  to  scratch  at  home 
—  to  kill  mice  and  rats  —  to  bring  all  she  catches  to  her 
master  —  to  do  what  he  tells  her  —  and  to  defend  his 
house  as  well  as  a  mastiff :  and  this  invaluable  creature  I 
was  going  to  lend  you  :  —  won’t  now,  d — d  if  I  do  !  ” 

“  Humph !  ” 

“  Hold  jaw  1  When  I’m  gone,  Jacobina  will  have  no 
one  to  feed  her.  She’ll  feed  herself —  will  go  to  every 
larder,  every  house  in  the  place  —  your’s  best  larder, 
best  house;  —  will  come  to  you  oftenest.  If  your  wife 
attempts  to  drive  her  away,  scratch  her  eyes  out ;  if  you 
disturb  her,  serve  you  worse  than  Joe  Webster’s  little 
boy:  —  wanted  to  prevent  this  —  won’t  now,  d — d  if  J 
do  !  ” 

“  But,  corporal,  how  would  it  mend  the  matter  to  tako 
the  devil  in-doors?” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


147 


“  Devil !  Don’t  call  names.  Did  not  I  tell  you,  only 
one  Jacobina  does  not  hurt  is  her  master?  —  make  you 
her  master:  now  d’ye  see?” 

“  It  is  very  hard,”  said  Peter  grumblingly,  “that  the 
only  way  I  can  defend  myself  from  this  villanous  crea¬ 
ture  is  to  take  her  into  my  house.” 

“  Yillanous  !  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  her  affection. 
She  returns  good  for  evil  —  she  always  loved  you ;  see 
how  she  rubs  herself  against  you  —  and  that’s  the  reason 
why  I  selected  you  from  the  whole  village,  to  tako  care 
of  her:  but  you  at  once  injure  yourself  and  refuse  to  do 
your  friend  a  service.  Howsomever,  you  know  I  shall  be 
with  young  squire,  and  he’ll  be  master  here  one  of  these 
days,  and  I  shall  have  an  influence  over  him  —  you’ll  see 
—  you’ll  see.  Look  that  there’s  not  another  “Spotted 
Dog  ”  set  up  —  augh  !  — bother  !  ” 

“  But  what  would  my  wife  say,  if  I  took  the  cat  ?  she 
can’t  abide  its  name.” 

“  Let  me  alone  to  talk  to  your  wife.  What  would  she 
say  if  I  bring  her  from  Lunnun  Town  a  fine  silk  gown, 
or  a  neat  shawl,  with  a  blue  border  —  blue  becomes  her ; 
or  a  tay-chest  —  that  will  do  for  you  both,  and  would  set 
off  the  little  back  parlor.  Mahogany  tay-chest  —  inlaid 
at  top  —  initials  in  silver  —  J.  B.  to  D.  and  P.  D.  —  two 
boxes  for  tay,  and  a  bowl  for  sugar  in  the  middle. —  Ah  1 
ah  !  Love  me,  love  my  cat !  When  was  Jacob  Bunting 
ungrateful  ?  —  augh  !  ” 

“  Well,  well  1  will  you  talk  to  Dorothy  about  it !  ” 

“  1  shall  have  your  consent,  then  ?  Thanks,  my  dear, 


148 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


dear  Peter;  ’pon  my  soul  you’re  a  fine  fellow!  You 
see,  you’re  great  man  of  the  parish.  If  you  protect  her, 
none  dare  injure  ;  if  you  scout  her,  all  set  upon  her. 
For  as  you  said,  or  rather  sung,  t’other  Sunday  —  capital 
voice  you  were  in  too  — 

“  The  mighty  tyrants  without  cause 
Conspire  her  blood  to  shed!  ” 

“  I  did  not  think  you  had  so  good  a  memory,  corporal,” 
said  Peter  smiling;  —  the  cat  was  now  curling  itself  up 
in  his  lap:  “after  all,  Jacobina — what  a  deuce  of  a 
name  —  seems  gentle  enough.” 

“Gentle  as  a  lamb  —  soft  as  butter  —  kind  as  cream 
— and  such  a  mouser  1  ” 

“But  I  don’t  think  Dorothy  —  ” 

“I’ll  settle  Dorothy.” 

“  Well,  when  will  you  look  up  ?  ” 

“Come  and  take  a  dish  of  tay  with  you  in  half  an 
hour  ;  — you  want  a  new  tay-chest ;  something  new  and 
genteel.” 

“  I  think  we  do,”  said  Peter,  rising  and  gently  deposit¬ 
ing  the  cat  on  the  ground. 

“Aha!  we’ll  see  to  it!  —  we’ll  see!  Good  b’ye  for 
the  present  —  in  half  an  hour  be  with  you  !  ” 

The  corporal,  left  alone  with  Jacobina,  eyed  her  intent¬ 
ly,  and  burst  into  the  following  pathetic  address: 

“Well,  Jacobina  !  you  little  know  the  pains  I  takes  to 
serve  you  — the  lies  I  tells  for  you  —  endangered  my  pre¬ 
cious  soul  for  your  sake,  you  jade  !  Ah  !  may  well  rub 
your  sides  against  me.  Jacobina  !  Jacobina  !  you  be  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


143 


only  thing  in  the  world  that  cares  a  button  for  me.  I 
have  neither  kith  nor  kin.  You  are  daughter  —  friend 
—  wife  to  me:  if  any  thing  happened  to  you,  I  should 
not  have  the  heart  to  love  any  thing  else.  And  body 
o’  me,  but  you  be  as  kind  as  any  mistress,  and  much  more 
tractable  than  any  wife  ;  but  the  world  gives  you  a  bad 
name,  Jacobina.  Why  ?  Is  it  that  you  do  worse  than 
the  world  do  ?  You  has  no  morality  in  you,  Jacobina: 
well,  but  has  the  world? — no!  But  it  has  humbug  — 
you  have  no  humbug,  Jacobina.  On  the  faith  of  a  man, 
Jacobina,  you  be  better  than  the  world  !  —  baugh  !  You 
takes  care  of  your  own  interest,  but  you  takes  care  of 
your  master’s  too  !  You  loves  me  as  well  as  yourself. 
Few  cats  can  say  the  same,  Jacobina  !  and  no  gossip  that 
flings  a  stone  at  your  pretty  brindled  skin'  can  say  half  as 
much.  We  must  not  forget  your  kittens,  Jacobina;  — 
you  have  four  left —  they  must  be  provided  for.  Why 
not  a  cat’s  children  as  well  as  a  courtier’s  ?  I  have  got 
you  a  comfortable  home,  Jacobina  —  take  care  of  your¬ 
self,  and  don’t  fall  in  love  with  every  tom-cat  in  the 
place.  Be  sober,  and  lead  a  single  life  till  my  return. 
Come,  Jacobina,  we  will  lock  up  the  house,  and  go  and 
see  the  quarters  I  have  provided  for  you. —  Heigho  !  ” 

As  he  finished  his  harangue,  the  corporal  locked  the 
door  of  his  cottage,  and  Jacobina  trotting  by  his  side,  he 
stalked  with  his  usual  stateliness  to  the  Spotted  Dog. 

Dame  Dorothy  Dealtry  received  him  with  a  clouded 
brow,  but  the  man  of  the  world  knew  whom  he  had  to 
leal  with.  On  Wednesday  morning  Jacobina  was  in- 
13* 


150 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ducted  into  the  comforts  of  the  hearth  of  mine  host ;  — 
and  her  four  little  kittens  mewed  hard  by,  from  the  sine¬ 
cure  of  a  basket  lined  with  flannel. 

Reader :  Here  is  wisdom  in  this  chapter :  it  is  not 
every  man  who  knows  how  to  dispose  of  his  cat. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  STRANGE  IJABIT. —  WALTER’S  INTERVIEW  WITH  MADE¬ 
LINE. —  HER  GENEROUS  AND  CONFIDING  DISPOSITION. - 

WALTER’S  ANGER. —  THE  PARTING  MEAL. - CONVERSA¬ 

TION  BETWEEN  THE  UNCLE  AND  NEPHEW. —  WALTER 
ALONE. - SLEEP  THE  BLESSING  OP  THE  YOUNG. 


“Fall.  Out,  out,  unworthy  to  speak  where  he  bieathetli.” 
*  *  *  *  &c. 

“  Punt .  Well  now,  my  whole  venture  is  forth,  I  will  resolve  to 
depart.” 

Ben.  Jonson.  —  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humoi. 

It  was  now  the  eve  before  Walter’s  departure,  and  on 
returning  home  from  a  farewell  walk  among  his  favorite 
haunts,  he  found  Aram,  whose  visit  had  been  made 
during  Walter’s  absence,  now  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  the  door,  and  taking  leave  of  Madeline  and  her  father. 
Aram  and  Walter  had  only  met  twice  before  since  the 
interview  we  recorded,  and  each  time  Walter  had  taken 
care  that  the  meeting  should  be  but  of  short  duration. 
In  these  brief  encounters,  Aram’s  manner  had  been  even 


EUGENE  ARAM 


i51 


more  gentle  than  heretofore ;  that  of  Walter’s  more 
cold  and  distant.  And  now,  as  they  thus  unexpectedly 
met  at  the  door,  Aram,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  said  : 

“  Farewell,  sir  1  You  are  to  leave  us  for  some  time,  I 
hear.  Heaven  speed  you  1  ”  Then  he  added  in  a  lower 
tone,  “  Will  you  take  my  hand,  now,  in  parting  ?  ” 

As  he  said,  he  put  forth  his  hand, —  it  was  the  left. 

“  Let  it  be  the  right  hand,”  observed  the  elder  Lester, 
smiling  :  “it  is  a  luckier  omen.” 

“I  think  not,”  said  Aram,  drily.  And  Walter  noted 
that  he  had  never  remembered  him  to  give  his  right  hand 
to  any  one,  even  to  Madeline  ;  the  peculiarity  of  this 
habit  might,  however,  arise  from  an  awkward  early  habit, 
it  was  certainly  scarce  worth  observing,  and  Walter  had 
already  coldly  touched  the  hand  extended  to  him  :  when 
Lester  carelessly  renewed  the  subject. 

“  Is  there  any  superstition,”  said  he  gaily,  “that  makes 
you  think,  as  some  of  the  ancients  did,  the  left  hand 
luckier  than  the  right  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  replied  Aram;  “a  superstition.  Adieu.” 

The  student  departed ;  Madeline  slowly  walked  up 
one  of  the  garden  alleys,  and  thither  Walter,  after  whis¬ 
pering  to  his  uncle,  followed  her. 

There  is  something  in  those  bitter  feelings,  which  are 
the  offspring  of  disappointed  love ;  something  in  the 
intolerable  anguish  of  well-founded  jealousy,  that  when 
the  first  shock  is  over,  often  hardens,  and  perhaps  ele¬ 
vates  the  character.  The  sterner  powers  that  we  arouse 
within  us  to  combat  a  passion  that  can  no  longer  be 


152 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


worthily  indulged,  are  never  afterwards  wholly  allayed. 
Like  the  allies  which  a  nation  summons  to  its  bosom  to 
defend  it  from  its  foes,  they  expel  the  enemy  only  to  find 
a  settlement  for  themselves.  The  mind  of  every  man 
who  conquers  an  unfortunate  attachment,  becomes  strong¬ 
er  than  before  ;  it  may  be  for  evil,  it  may  be  for  good, 
but  the  capacities  for  either  are  more  vigorous  and 
collected. 

The  last  few  weeks  had  done  more  for  Walter’s  charac¬ 
ter  than  years  of  ordinary,  even  of  happy  emotion,  might 
have  effected.  He  had  passed  from  youth  to  manhood, 
and  with  the  sadness,  had  acquired  also  something  of  the 
dignity,  of  experience.  Not  that  we  would  say  that  he 
had  subdued  his  love,  but  he  had  made  the  first  step 
towards  it ;  he  had  resolved  that  at  all  hazards  it  should 
be  subdued. 

As  he  now  joined  Madeline,  and  she  perceived  him  by 
her  side,  her  embarrassment  was  more  evident  than  his. 
She  feared  some  avowal,  and,  from  his  temper,  perhaps 
some  violence  on  his  part.  However,  she  was  the  first  to 
speak  ;  women,  in  such  cases,  always  are. 

“  It  is  a  beautiful  evening,”  said  she,  “  and  the  sun  set 
in  promise  of  a  fine  day  for  your  journey  to-morrow.” 

Walter  walked  on  silently;  his  heart  was  full. 

“  Madeline,”  he  said  at  length,  “  dear  Madeline,  give 
me  your  hand.  Nay,  do  not  fear  me  ;  I  know  what  you 
think,  and  you  are  right ;  I  loved  —  I  still  love  you  !  but 
I  know  well  that  I  can  have  no  hope  in  making  this  con¬ 
fession  ;  and  when  I  ask  you  for  your  hand,  Madeline,  it 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


153 


is  only  to  convince  you  that  I  have  no  suit  to  press  ;  had 
1,  I  would  not  dare  to  touch  that  hand.” 

Madeline,  wondering  and  embarrassed,  gave  him  her 
hand  ;  he  held  it  for  a  moment  with  a  trembling  clasp, 
pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  then  resigned  it. 

1  Yes,  Madeline,  my  cousin,  my  sweet  cousin;  I  have 
loved  you  deeply,  but  silently,  long  before  my  heart  could 
unravel  the  mystery  of  the  feelings  with  which  it  glowed. 
But  this  —  all  this  —  it  were  now  idle  to  repeat.  I  know 
that  I  have  no  hope  of  return ;  that  the  heart  whose 
possession  would  have  made  my  whole  life  a  dream,  a 
transport,  is  given  to  another.  I  have  not  sought  you 
now,  Madeline,  to  repine  at  this,  or  to  vex  you  by  the 
tale  of  any  suffering  I  may  endure  :  I  am  come  only  to 
give  you  the  parting  wishes,  the  parting  blessing,  of  one, 
who,  wherever  he  goes,  or  whatever  befall  him,  will 
always  think  of  you  as  the  brightest  and  loveliest  of 
human  beings.  May  you  be  happy,  yes  even  with  another !  ” 
“  Oh,  Walter  !  ”  said  Madeline,  affected  to  tears,  “if  I 
ever  encouraged  —  if  I  ever  led  you  to  hope  for  more 
than  the  warm,  the  sisterly  affection  I  bear  you,  how  bit¬ 
terly  I  should  reproach  myself !  ” 

“  You  never  did,  dear  Madeline  ;  I  asked  for  no  induce¬ 
ment  to  love  you, —  I  never  dreamed  of  seeking  a'motive, 
or  inquiring  if  I  had  cause  to  hope.  But  as  I  am  now 
about  to  quit  you,  and  as  you  confess  you  feel  for  me  a 
sister’s  affection,  will  you  give  me  leave  to  speak  to  you 
as  a  brother  might  ?  ” 

Madeline  held  out  her  hand  to  him  in  frank  cordiality : 
f<Yes!”  said  she,  “speak!” 


154 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Then,’’  said  Walter,  turning  awa)  nis  head  in  a  spirit 
of  delicacy  that  did  him  honor,  “  is  it  yet  all  too  late  for 
me  to  say  one  word  of  caution  as  relates  to  —  Eugene 
Aram  ?  ” 

“Of  caution!  you  alarm  me,  Walter;  speak,  has 
aught  happened  to  him  ?  I  saw  him  as  lately  as  your¬ 
self.  Does  aught  threaten  him  ?  Speak,  I  implore  you, 
—  quick  ?  ” 

“I  know  of  no  danger  to  him!'1'1  replied  Walter, 
stung  to  perceive  the  breathless  anxiety  with  which  Mad¬ 
eline  spoke  ;  “  but  pause,  my  cousin,  may  there  be  no 
danger  to  you  from  this  man  ?  ” 

“Walter  !  ” 

“I  grant  him  wise,  learned,  gentle, —  nay  more  than 
all,  bearing  about  him  a  spell,  a  fascination,  by  which  he 
softens,  or  awes  at  will,  and  which  even  I  cannot  resist. 
But  yet  his  abstracted  mood,  his  gloomy  life,  certain 
words  that  have  broken  from  him  unawares, —  certain 
tell-tale  emotions,  which  words  of  mine,  heedlessly  said, 
have  fiercely  aroused,  all  united,  inspire  me, —  shall  I  say 
it, —  with  fear  and  distrust.  I  cannot  think  him  alto¬ 
gether  the  calm  and  pure  being  he  appears.  Madeline, 
I  have  asked  myself  again  and  again,  is  this  suspicion 
the  effect  of  jealousy  ?  do  I  scan  his  bearing  with  the 
jaundiced  eye  of  disappointed  rivalship  ?  And  I  have 
satisfied  my  conscience  that  my  judgment  is  not  thus 
biassed.  Stay  !  listen  yet  a  little  while  !  You  have  a 
high  —  a  thoughtful  mind.  Exert  it  now.  Consider 
your  whole  happiness  rests  on  one  step  !  Pause,  exa- 


EUGENE  ARAM 


155 


mine,  compare!  Remember,  you  have  not  of  Aram,  as 
of  those  whom  you  have  hitherto  mixed  with,  the  eye¬ 
witness  of  a  life  !  You  can  know  but  little  of  his  real 
temper,  his  secret  qualities  ;  still  less  of  the  tenor  of  his 
former  life.  I  only  ask  of  you,  for  your  own  sake,  for 
my  sake,  your  sister’s  sake,  and  your  good  father’s,  not  to 
judge  too  rashly!  Love  him,  if  you  will;  but  observe 
him  !  ” 

“  Have  you  done  ?  ”  said  Madeline,  who  had  hitherto 
with  difficulty  contained  herself;  “then  hear  me.  Was 
it  I  ?  was  it  Madeline  Lester  whom  you  asked  to  play  the 
watch,  to  enact  the  spy  upon  the  man  whom  she  exalts  in 
loving  ?  Was  it  not  enough  that  you  should  descend  to 
mark  down  each  incautious  look  —  to  chronicle  every 
heedless  word  —  to  draw  dark  deductions  from  the  unsus¬ 
pecting  confidence  of  my  father’s  friend  —  to  lie  in  wait 
—  to  hang  with  a  foe’s  malignity  upon  the  unbendings 
of  familiar  intercourse  —  to  extort  anger  from  gentleness 
itself,  that  you  might  wrest  the  anger  into  crime  !  Shame, 
shame  upon  you,  for  the  meanness  !  And  must  you  also 
suppose  that  I,  to  whose  trust  he  has  given  his  noble 
heart,  will  receive  it  only  to  play  the  eavesdropper  to  its 
secrets  ?  Away !  ” 

The  generous  blood  crimsoned  the  cheek  and  brow  of 
this  high-spirited  girl  as  she  uttered  her  galling  reproof; 
her  eyes  sparkled,  her  lip  quivered,  her  whole  frame  seem¬ 
ed  to  have  grown  larger  with  the  majesty  of  indignant 
'ove. 

“Cruel,  unjust,  ungrateful!”  ejaculated  Walter,  paie 


156 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


with  rage,  and  trembling  under  the  conflict  of  his  roused 
and  wounded  feelings.  “  Is  it  thus  you  answer  the  warn* 
nig  of  too  disinterested  and  self-forgetful  a  love  ?  ” 

“  Love  1  ”  exclaimed  Madeline.  “  Grant  me  patience  1 

—  Love  1  It  was  but  now  I  thought  myself  honored  by 
the  affection  you  said  you  bore  me.  At  this  instant,  I 
blush  to  have  called  forth  a  single  sentiment  in  one  who 
knows  so  little  what  love  is  !  Love  !  —  methought  that 
word  denoted  all  that  was  high  and  noble  in  human 
nature — confidence,  hope,  devotion,  sacrifice  of  all  thought 
of  self!  but  you  would  make  it  the  type  and  concentra¬ 
tion  of  all  that  lowers  and  debases  !  —  suspicion  —  cavil 

—  fear  —  selfishness  in  all  its  shapes!  Out  on  you  — 
love  !  ” 

“  Enough,  enough  !  Say  no  more,  Madeline,  say  no 
more.  We  part  not  as  I  had  hoped;  but  be  it  so. 
You  have  changed  indeed,  if  your  conscience  smite  you 
not  hereafter  for  this  injustice.  Farewell,  and  may  you 
never  regret,  not  only  the  heart  you  have  rejected,  but 
the  friendship  you  have  belied.”  With  these  words,  and 
choked  by  his  emotions,  Walter  hastily  strode  away. 

He  hurried  into  the  house,  and  into  a  little  room 
adjoining  the  chamber  in  which  he  slept,  and  which  had 
been  also  appropriated  solely  to  his  use.  It  was  now 
spread  with  boxes  and  trunks,  some  half  packed,  some 
corded,  and  inscribed  with  the  address  to  which  they  were 
to  be  sent  in  London.  All  these  mute  tokens  of  his 
approaching  departure  struck  upon  his  excited  feelings 
with  a  suddenness  that  overpowered  him. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


157 


'•And  it  is  thus  —  thus,”  said  he  aloud,  “that  I  am  to 
leave,  for  the  first  time,  mj  childhood’s  home.” 

He  threw  himself  upon  his  chair,  and  covering  his 
face  with  his  hands,  burst,  fairly  subdued  and  unmanned, 
into  a  paroxysm  of  tears. 

When  this  emotion  was  over,  he  felt  as  if  his  love  for 
Madeline  had  also  disappeared ;  a  sore  and  insulted 
feeling  was  all  that  her  image  now  recalled  to  him. 
This  idea  gave  him  some  consolation.  “  Thank  God  !  ” 
he  muttered,  “  thank  God,  I  am  cured  at  last !  ” 

The  thanksgiving  was  scarcely  over,  before  the  door 
opened  softly,  and  Ellinor,  not  perceiving  him  where  he 
sat,  entered  the  room,  and  laid  on  the  table  a  purse  which 
she  had  long  promised  to  knit  him,  and  which  seemed 
now  designed  as  a  parting  gift. 

> 

She  sighed  heavily  as  she  laid  it  down,  and  he  observed 
that  her  eyes  seemed  red  as  with  weeping. 

He  did  not  move,  and  Ellinor  left  the  room  without 
discovering  him ;  but  he  remained  there  till  dark,  musing 
on  her  apparition,  and  before  he  went  down  stairs,  he 
took  up  the  little  purse,  kissed  it,  and  put  it  carefully 
into  his  bosom. 

He  sate  next  to  Ellinor  at  supper  that  evening,  and 
though  he  did  not  say  much,  his  last  words  were  more  to 
her  than  words  had  ever  been  before.  When  he  took 
leave  of  her  for  the  night,  he  whispered,  as  he  kissed  her 
cheek  ;  “  God  bless  you,  dearest  Ellinor,  and  till  T  return, 
take  care  of  yourself,  for  the  sake  of  one,  who  loves  you 
iow,  better  than  any  thing  on  earth.” 

I.— 14 


158 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Lester  had  just  left  the  room  to  write  some  letters  for 
Walter ;  and  Madeline,  who  had  hitherto  sat  absorbed 
and  silent  by  the  window,  now  approached  Walter,  and 
offered  him  her  hand. 

“  Forgive  me,  my  dear  cousin,”  she  said  in  her  softest 
voice.  “  I  feel  that  I  was  hasty,  and  to  blame.  Believe 
me,  I  am  now  at  least  grateful,  warmly  grateful,  for  the 
kindness  of  your  motives.” 

“Not  so,”  said  Walter  bitterly,  “the  advice  of  a 
friend  is  only  meanness.” 

“  Come,  come,  forgive  me  ;  pray  do  not  let  us  part 
unkindly.  When  did  we  ever  quarrel  before  ?  I  was 
wrong,  grievously  wrong  —  I  will  perform  any  penance 
you  may  enjoin.” 

“Agreed  then,  follow  my  admonitions.” 

“  Ah  1  any  thing  else,”  said  Madeline,  gravely,  and 
coloring  deeply. 

Walter  said  no  more  ;  he  pressed  her  hand  lightly  and 
turned  away. 

“  Is  all  forgiven  ?  ”  said  she,  in  so  bewitching  a  tone, 
and  with  so  bright  a  smile,  that  Walter,  against  his  con¬ 
science,  answered,  “Yes.” 

The  sisters  left  the  room.  I  know  not  which  of  the 
two  received  his  last  glance. 

Lester  now  returned  with  the  letters.  “  There  is  one 
jharge,  my  dear  boy,”  said  he  in  concluding  the  moral 
injunctions  and  experienced  suggestions  with  which  the 
young  generally  leave  the  ancestral  home  (whether  prac¬ 
tically  benefited  or  not  by  the  legacy,  may  be  a  matter 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


159 


of  question)  —  “  there  is  one  charge  which  I  need  not 
entrust  to  your  ingenuity  and  zeal.  You  know  my  strong 
conviction,  that  your  father,  my  poor  brother,  still  lives. 
Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  to  exert  yourself  by  all 
ways  and  in  all  means  to  discover  some  clue  to  his  fate  ? 
Who  knows,”  added  Lester,  with  a  smile,  “  but  that  you 
may  find  him  a  rich  nabob.  I  confess  that  I  should  feel 
but  little  surprise  if  it  were  so  ;  but  at  all  events  you  will 
make  every  possible  inquiry.  I  have  written  down  in 
this  paper  the  few  particulars  concerning  him  which  I 
have  been  enabled  to  glean  since  he  left  his  home  ;  the 
places  where  he  was  last  seen,  the  false  names  he  assumed, 
&c.  I  shall  watch  with  great  anxiety  for  any  fuller  suc¬ 
cess  to  your  researches.” 

“  You  needed  not,  my  dear  uncle,”  said  Walter  se¬ 
riously,  “  to  have  spoken  to  me  on  this  subject.  No  one, 
not  even  yourself,  can  have  felt  what  I  have ;  can  have 
cherished  the  same  anxiety,  nursed  the  same  hope,  indulged 
the  same  conjecture.  I  have  not,  it  is  true,  often  of  late 
years  spoken  to  you  on  a  matter  so  near  to  us  both,  but 
I  have  spent  whole  hours  in  guesses  at  my  father’s  fate, 
and  in  dreams  that  for  me  was  reserved  the  proud  task  to 
discover  it.  I  will  not  say  indeed  that  it  makes  at  this 
moment  the  chief  motive  for  my  desire  to  travel,  but  in 
travel  it  will  become  my  chief  object.  Perhaps  I  may 
find  him  not  only  rich  —  that  for  my  part  is  but  a  minor 
wish, —  but  sobered  and  reformed  from  the  errors  and 
wildness  of  his  earlier  manhood.  Oh,  what  should  be 
his  gratitude  to  you  for  all  the  care  with  which  you  have 


160 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


supplied  to  the  forsaken  child  the  father’s  place  ;  and  not 
the  least,  that  you  have,  in  softening  the  colors  of  hid 
conduct,  taught  me  still  to  prize  and  seek  for  a  father’s 
love  1  ” 

“You  have  a  kind  heart,  Walter,”  said  the  good  old 
man,  pressing  his  nephew’s  hand,  “  and  that  has  more 
than  repaid  me  for  the  little  I  have  done  for  you  ;  it  is 
better  to  sow  a  g<?od  heart  with  kindness,  than  a  field 
with  corn,  for  the  heart’s  harvest  is  perpetual.” 

Many,  keen,  and  earnest  were  that  night  the  medita¬ 
tions  of  Walter  Lester.  He  was  about  to  quit  the  home 
in  which  youth  had  been  past,  in  which  first  love  had 
been  formed  and  blighted  :  the  world  was  before  him ; 
but  there  was  something  more  grave  than  pleasure,  more 
steady  than  enterprise,  that  beckoned  him  to  its  paths. 
The  deep  mystery  that  for  so  many  years  had  hung  over 
the  fate  of  his  parent,  it  might  indeed  be  his  lot  to 
pierce  ;  and  with  a  common  waywardness  in  our  nature, 
the  restless  son  felt  his  interest  in  that  parent  the  livelier 
from  the  very  circumstance  of  remembering  nothing  of 
his  person.  Affection  had  been  nursed  by  curiosity  and 
imagination,  and  the  bad  father  was  thus  more  fortunate 
in  winning  the  heart  of  the  son,  than  had  he  perhaps,  by 
the  tenderness  of  years,  deserved  that  affection. 

Oppressed  and  feverish,  Walter  opened  the  lattice  of 
his  room,  and  looked  forth  on  the  night.  The  broad 
harvest-moon  was  in  the  heavens,  and  filled  the  air  as 
with  a  softer  and  holier  day.  At  a  distance  its  light  just 
gave  the  dark  outline  of  Aram’s  house,  and  beneath  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


161 


window  it  lay  bright  and  steady  on  the  green,  still  church¬ 
yard  that  adjoined  the  house.  The  air  and  the  light 
allayed  the  fitfulness  at  the  young  man’s  heart,  but  served 
to  solemnize  the  project  and  desire  with  which  it  beat. 
Still  leaning  from  the  casement,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  tranquil  scene  below,  he  poured  forth  a  prayer,  that 
to  his  hands  might  the  discovery  of  his  lost  sire  be 
granted.  The  prayer  seemed  to  lift  the  oppression  from 
his  breast ;  he  felt  cheerful  and  relieved,  and  flinging 
himself  on  his  bed,  soon  fell  into  the  sound  and  healthful 
sleep  of  youth.  And  oh  !  let  Youth  cherish  that  happi¬ 
est  of  earthly  boons  while  yet  it  is  at  its  command ;  — 
for  there  cometh  the  day  to  all,  when  “  neither  the  voice 
of  the  lute  or  the  birds  ”  *  shall  bring  back  the  sweet 
slumbers  that  fell  on  their  young  eyes,  as  unbidden  as  the 
dews.  It  is  a  dark  epoch  in  a  man’s  life  when  Sleep  for¬ 
sakes  him ;  when  he  tosses  to  and  fro,  and  Thought  will 
not  be  silenced ;  when  the  drug  and  draught  are  the 
courters  of  stupefaction,  not  sleep  ;  when  the  down  pil¬ 
low  is  as  a  knotted  log  ;  when  the  eyelids  close  but  with  an 
effort,  and  there  is  a  drag  and  a  weight,  and  dizziness  in 
the  eyes  at  morn.  Desire,  and  Grief,  and  Love,  these  are 
the  young  man’s  torments,  but  they  are  the  creatures  of 
Time  ;  Time  removes  them  as  it  brings,  and  the  vigils  we 
keep,  “  while  the  evil  days  come  not,”  if  weary,  are  brief 
and  few.  But  Memory,  and  Care,  and  Ambition,  and 
Avarice,  these  are  the  demon-gods  that  defy  the  Time 

*  “Non  avium  citkaraeque,”  &c.  — Horat. 

14*  L 


162 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


that  fathered  them.  The  worldlier  passions  are  the  growth 
of  mature  years,  and  their  grave  is  dug  but  in  our  own. 
As  the  dark  Spirits  in  the  Northern  tale,  that  watch 
against  the  coming  of  one  of  a  brighter  and  holier  race, 
lest  if  he  seize  them  unawares,  he  bind  them  prisoners  in 
his  chain,  they  keep  ward  at  night  over  the  entrance  of 
that  deep  cave  —  the  human  heart  —  and  scare  away  tha 
angel  Sleep! 


\ 


BOOK  SECOND 


—  av9pv- 

vuv  <pptmv  ann\aiciai 
*AvKpi6fj.-aT0i  tcptfiavrai. 

ToSro  S'  apd%avov  evpciv, 

*0  Tt  viiv ,  kui  iv  reXev- 
T#  <pfpTClTlV  avSpl  TV%tlV. 

Pind.  0.  vii.  —  44 


Inuumerous,  o’er  their  human  prey, 

Grim  errors  hang  the  hoarded  sorrow; 
Thro’  vapor  gleams  the  present  day, 

And  darkness  wraps  the  morrow. 

Paraphrase. 


. 


.  rife 


.  -  J. * 


* 

*;•  '  '  *  lh 


BOOK  SECOND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  MARRIAGE  SETTLED. — LESTER’S  HOPES  AND  SCHEMES. 

—  GAIETY  OP  TEMPER  A  GOOD  SPECULATION. - THE 

TRUTH  AND  FERVOR  OF  ARAM’S  LOVE. 


“  Love  is  better  than  a  pair  of  spectacles,  to  make  every  thing 
seem  greater  which  is  seen  through  it.” 

Sir  Philip  Sidney’s  Arcadia. 

Aram’s  affection  to  Madeline  having  now  been  formally 
announced  to  Lester,  and  Madeline’s  consent  having  been 
somewhat  less  formally  obtained,  it  only  remained  to  fix 
the  time  for  their  wedding.  Though  Lester  forbore  to 
question  Aram  as  to  his  circumstances,  the  student  frankly 
confessed,  that  if  not  affording  what  the  generality  of 
persons  would  consider  even  a  competence,  they  enabled 

(163) 


164 


EUGENE  ARAM 


one  of  bis  moderate  wants  and  retired  life  to  dispense, 
especially  in  the  remote  and  cheap  district  in  which  they 
lived,  with  all  the  fortune  in  a  wife,  who,  like  Madeline, 
was  equally  with  himself  enamoured  of  obscurity.  The 
good  Lester,  however,  proposed  to  bestow  upon  his 
daughter  such  a  portion  as  might  allow  for  the  wants  of 
an  increased  family,  or  the  probable  contingencies  of 
Fate.  For  though  Fortune  may  often  slacken  her  wheel, 
there  is  no  spot  in  which  she  suffers  it  to  be  wholly  still. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  September,  and  by  the  end 
of  the  ensuing  month  it  was  agreed  that  the  spousals  ol 
the  lovers  should  be  held.  It  is  certain  that  Lester  felt 
one  pang  for  his  nephew,  as  he  subscribed  to  this  pro¬ 
posal  ;  but  he  consoled  himself  with  recurring  to  a  hope 
he  had  long  cherished,  viz.  that  Walter  would  return 
home  not  only  cured  of  his  vain  attachment  to  Madeline, 
but  of  his  indisposition  to  admit  the  attractions  of  her 
sister.  A  marriage  between  these  two  cousins  had  for 
years  been  his  favorite  project.  The  lively  and  ready 
temper  of  Ellinor,  her  household  turn,  her  merry  laugh, 
a  winning  playfulness  that  characterized  even  her  defects, 
were  all  more  after  Lester’s  secret  heart  than  the  graver 
and  higher  nature  of  his  elder  daughter.  This  might 
mainly  be,  that  they  were  traits  of  disposition  that  more 
reminded  him  of  his  lost  wife,  and  were  therefore  more 
accordant  with  his  ideal  standard  of  perfection  ;  but  I 
incline  also  to  believe  that  the  more  persons  advance  in 
years,  the  more,  even  if  of  staid  and  sober  tempers  them¬ 
selves,  they  love  gaiety  and  elasticity  in  youth.  I  have 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


165 


often  pleased  myself  by  observing  in  some  happy  family 
circle  embracing  all  ages,  that  it  is  the  liveliest  and  wild¬ 
est  child  that  charms  the  grandsire  the  most.  And  after 
all,  it  is  perhaps  with  characters  as  with  books,  the  grave 
and  thoughtful  may  be  more  admired  than  the  light  and 
cheerful,  but  they  are  less  liked  ;  it  is  not  only  that  the 
former  being  of  a  more  abstruse  and  recondite  nature, 
find  fewer  persons  capable  of  judging  of  their  merits,  but 
also  that  the  great  object  of  the  majority  of  human 
beings  is  to  be  amused,  and  that  they  naturally  incline  to 
love  those  the  best  who  amuse  them  most.  And  to  so 
great  a  practical  extent  is  this  preference  pushed,  that  I 
think  were  a  nice  observer  to  make  a  census  of  all  those 
who  have  received  legacies,  or  dropped  unexpectedly 
into  fortunes ;  he  would  find  that  where  one  grave  dispo¬ 
sition  had  so  benefited,  there  would  be  at  least  twenty 
gay.  Perhaps,  however,  it  may  be  said  that  I  am  taking 
the  cause  for  the  effect! 

But  to  return  from  our  speculative  disquisitions  ;  Lester 
then,  who,  though  he  so  slowly  discovered  his  nephew’s 
passion  for  Madeline,  had  long  since  guessed  the  secret 
of  Ellinor’s  affection  for  him,  looked  forward  with  a  hope 
rather  sanguine  than  anxious  to  the  ultimate  realization 
of  his  cherished  domestic  scheme.  And  he  pleased  him¬ 
self  with  thinking  that  when  all  soreness  would,  by  this 
double  wedding,  be  banished  from  Walter’s  mind,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  couceive  a  family  group  more 
united  or  more  happy 

And  Ellinor  herself,  ever  since  the  parting  words  of 


166 


ETJGENE  ARAM. 


her  cousin,  had  seemed,  so  far  from  being  inconsolable 
for  his  absence,  more  bright  of  cheek  and  elastic  of  step 
than  she  had  been  for  months  before.  What  a  world  of 
all  feelings,  which  forbid  despondence,  lies  hoarded  in 
the  hearts  of  the  young  !  As  one  fountain  is  filled  by  the 
channels  that  exhaust  another ;  we  cherish  wisdom  at  the 
expense  of  hope.  It  thus  happened  from  one  cause  or 
another,  that  Walter’s  absence  created  a  less  cheerless 
blank  in  the  family  circle  than  might  have  been  expected, 
and  the  approaching  bridal  of  Madeline  and  her  lover, 
naturally  diverted  in  a  great  measure  the  thoughts  of 
each,  and  engrossed  their  conversation. 

Whatever  might  be  Madeline’s  infatuation  as  to  the 
merits  of  Aram,  one  merit  —  the  greatest  of  all  in  the 
eyes  of  a  woman  who  loves,  he  at  least  possessed.  Never 
was  mistress  more  burningly  and  deeply  loved  than  she, 
who,  for  the  first  time,  awoke  the  long  slumbering  passions 
in  the  heart  of  Eugene  Aram.  Every  day  the  ardor  of 
his  affections  seemed  to  increase.  With  what  anxiety  he 
watched  her  footsteps  1  —  with  what  idolatry  he  hung 
upon  her  words!  —  with  what  unspeakable  and  yearning 
emotion  he  gazed  upon  the  changeful  eloquence  of  her 
cheek!  Now  that  Walter  was  gone,  he  almost  took  up 
his  abode  at  the  manor-house.  He  came  thither  in  the 
early  morning,  and  rarely  returned  home  before  the  family 
retired  for  the  night ;  and  even  then,  when  all  was  hushed, 
and  they  believed  him  in  his  solitary  home,  he  lingered 
for  hours  around  the  house,  to  look  up  to  Madeline’s 
window,  charmed  to  the  spot  which  held  the  intoxication 


EUGENE.  ARAM. 


lfVT 


of  her  presence.  Madeline  discovered  this  habit,  and 
chid  it ;  but  so  tenderly  that  it  was  not  cured.  And  still 
at  times,  by  the  autumnal  moon,  she  marked  from  her 
window  his  dark  figure  gliding  among  the  shadows  of  the 
trees,  or  pausing  by  the  lowly  tombs  in  the  still  church¬ 
yard  —  the  resting-place  of  hearts  that  once,  perhaps, 
beat  as  wildly  as  his  own. 

It  was  impossible  that  a  love  of  this  order,  and  from 
one  so  richly  gifted  as  Aram  ;  a  love,  which  in  substance 
was  truth,  and  yet  in  language  poetry,  could  fail  wholly 
to  subdue  and  enthral  a  girl  so  young,  so  romantic,  so 
enthusiastic,  as  Madeline  Lester.  How  intense  and  deli¬ 
cious  must  have  been  her  sense  of  happiness !  In  the 
pure  heart  of  a  girl  loving  for  the  first  time  —  love  is  far 
more  ecstatic  than  in  man,  inasmuch  as  it  is  unfevered  by 
desire  —  love  then  and  there  makes  the  only  state  of  hu¬ 
man  existence  which  is  at  once  capable  of  calmness  and 
transport  1 


I. —  15 


168 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


/ 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  FAVORABLE  SPECIMEN  OF  A  NOBLEMAN  AND  A  COIR- 
TIER. - A  MAN  OF  SOME  FAULTS  AND  MANY  ACCOM¬ 

PLISHMENTS. 


“Titinius  Capito  is  to  rehearse.  He  is  a  man  of  an  excellent 
disposition,  and  to  be  numbered  among  the  chief  ornaments  of 
his  age.  He  cultivates  literature  —  he  loves  men  of  learning,”  &c. 

—  Lobb  Orrery’s  Pliny. 

About  this  time  the  Earl  0f  *  *  *  *  *,  the  great  noble¬ 
man  of  the  district,  and  whose  residence  was  within  four 
miles  of  Grassdale,  came  down  to  pay  his  wonted  yearly 
visit  to  his  country  domains.  He  was  a  man  well  known 
in  the  history  of  the  times  ;  though,  for  various  reasons, 
I  conceal  his  name.  He  was  a  courtier;  — deep  —  wily 

—  accomplished  ;  but  capable  of  generous  sentiments  and 
enlarged  views.  Though,  from  regard  to  his  interests,  he 
seized  and  lived  as  it  were  upon  the  fleeting  spirit  of  the 
day  —  the  penetration  of  his  intellect  went  far  beyond 
its  reach.  He  claims  the  merit  of  having  been  the  one 
of  all  his  cotemporaries  (Lord  Chesterfield  alone  except¬ 
ed,)  who  most  clearly  saw,  and  most  distinctly  prophe¬ 
sied,  the  dark  and  fearful  storm  that  at  the  close  of  the 
century  burst  over  the  vices,  in  order  to  sweep  away  the 
miseries,  of  France  —  a  terrible  avenger  —  a  salutary 
purifier. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


169 


From  the  small  circle  of  sounding  trifles,  in  which  the 
dwellers  of  a  court  are  condemned  to  live,  and  which  he 
brightened  by  his  abilities  and  graced  by  his  accomplish¬ 
ments,  the  sagacious  and  far-sighted  mind  of  Lord  ***** 
comprehended  the  vast  field  without,  usually  invisible  to 
those  of  his  habits  and  profession.  Men  who  the  best 
know  the  little  nucleus  which  is  called  the  world,  are 
often  the  most  iguorant  of  mankind ;  but  it  was  the 
peculiar  attribute  of  this  nobleman,  that  he  could  not 
only  analyze  the  external  customs  of  his  species,  but  also 
penetrate  their  deeper  and  more  hidden  interests. 

The  works  and  correspondence  he  has  left  behind  him, 
though  far  from  voluminous,  testify  a  consummate  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  varieties  of  human  nature.  The  refinement 
of  his  taste  appears  less  remarkable  than  the  vigor  of 
his  understanding.  It  might  be  that  he  knew  the  vices 
of  men  better  than  their  virtues ;  yet  he  was  no  shallow 
disbeliever  in  the  latter  :  he  read  the  heart  too  accurately 
not  to  know  that  it  is  guided  as  often  by  its  affections  as 
its  interests.  In  his  early  life  he  had  incurred,  not  with¬ 
out  truth,  the  charge  of  licentiousness  ;  but  even  in  pursuit 
of  pleasure,  he  had  been  neither  weak  on  the  one  hand, 
nor  gross  on  the  other; — neither  the  headlong  dupe, 
nor  the  callous  sensualist :  but  his  graces,  his  rank,  his 
wealth,  had  made  his  conquests  a  matter  of  too  easy 
purchase ;  and  hence,  like  all  voluptuaries,  the  part  of 
his  worldly  knowledge,  which  was  the  most  fallible,  was 
that  which  related  to  the  sex.  He  judged  of  woman  by 
a  standard  too  distinct  from  that  by  which  he  judged  of 


170 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


men,  and  considered  those  foibles  peculiar  to  the  sex, 
which  in  reality  are  incident  to  human  nature. 

His  natural  disposition  was  grave  and  reflective  ;  and 
though  he  was  not  without  wit,  it  was  rarely  used.  He 
lived,  necessarily,  with  the  frivolous  and  the  ostentatious, 
yet  ostentation  and  frivolity  were  charges  never  brought 
against  himself.  As  a  diplomatist  and  a  statesman,  he 
was  of  the  old  and  erroneous  school  of  intriguers ;  but 
his  favorite  policy  was  the  science  of  conciliation.  He 
was  one  who  would  so  far  have  suited  the  present  age, 
that  no  man  could  better  have  steered  a  nation  from  the 
chances  of  war  ;  James  the  First  could  not  have  been 
inspired  with  a  greater  affection  for  peace  ;  but  the  peer’s 
dexterity  would  have  made  that  peace  as  honorable  as 
the  king’s  weakness  could  have  made  it  degraded.  Ambi¬ 
tious  to  a  certain  extent,  but  neither  grasping  nor  mean, 
he  never  obtained  for  his  genius  the  full  and  extensive 
field  it  probably  deserved.  He  loved  a  happy  life  above  all 
things ;  and  he  knew  that  while  activity  is  the  spirit, 
fatigue  is  the  bane,  of  happiness. 

In  his  day,  he  enjoyed  a  large  share  of  that  public 
attention  which  generally  bequeatbo  fame;  yet  from  sev¬ 
eral  causes  (of  which  his  own  moderation  is  not  the 
least)  his  present  reputation  is  infinitely  less  great  that 
the  opinions  of  his  most  distinguished  cotemporaries 
foreboded. 

It  is  a  more  difficult  matter  for  men  of  high  rank  to 
become  illustrious  to  posterity,  than  for  persons  in  a 
sterner'  and  more  wholesome  walk  of  life.  Ev£n  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


m 

greatest  among  the  distinguished  men  of  the  patrician 
order,  suffer  in  the  eyes  of  the  after-age  for  the  very 
qualities,  mostly  dazzling  defects,  or  brilliant  eccentricities, 
which  made  them  most  popularly  remarkable  in  their 
day.  Men  forgive  Burns  his  amours  and  his  revellings 
with  greater  ease  than  they  will  forgive  Bolingbroke  and 
Byron  for  the  same  offences. 

Our  earl  was  fond  of  the  society  of  literary  men  ;  he 
himself,  was  well,  perhaps  even  deeply,  read.  Certainly 
his  intellectual  acquisitions  were  more  profound  than 
they  have  been  generally  esteemed,  though  with  the  com¬ 
mon  subtlety  of  a  ready  genius,  he  could  make  the  quick 
adaptation  of  a  timely  fact,  acquired  for  the  occasion, 
appear  the  rich  overflowing  of  a  copious  erudition.  He 
was  a  man  who  instantly  perceived,  and  liberally  acknow- 
lodged,  the  merits  of  others.  No  connoisseur  had  a 
more  felicitous  knowledge  of  the  arts,  or  was  more  just 
in  the  general  objects  of  his  patronage.  In  short,  what 
with  all  his  advantages,  he  was  one  whom  an  aristocracy 
may  boast  of,  though  a  people  may  forget ;  and  if  not  a 
great  man,  was  at  least  a  most  remarkable  lord. 

The  Earl  0f  *****,  in  his  last  visit  to  his  estates,  had 
not  forgotten  to  seek  out  the  eminent  scholar  who  shed 
an  honor  upon  his  neighborhood  ;  he  had  been  greatly 
struck  with  the  bearing  and  conversation  of  Aram,  aucl 
with  the  usual  felicity  with  which  the  accomplished  earl 
adapted  his  nature  to  those  with  whom  he  was  thrown, 
he  had  succeeded  in  ingratiating  himself  with  Aram  in 
return.  He  could  not  indeed  persuade  the  haughty  and 
15* 


m 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


solitary  student  to  visit  him  at  the  castle  ;  but  the  earl 
did  not  disdain  to  seek  any  one  from  whom  he  could 
obtain  instruction,  and  he  had  twice  or  thrice  voluntarily 
encountered  Aram,  and  effectually  drawn  him  from  his 
reserve.  The  earl  now  heard  with  some  pleasure,  and 
more  surprise,  that  the  austere  recluse  was  about  to  be 
married  to  the  beauty  of  the  county,  and  he  resolved  to 
seize  the  first  occasion  to  call  at  the  manor-house  to  offer 
his  compliments  and  congratulations  to  its  inmates. 

Sensible  men  of  rank,  who,  having  enjoyed  their  dig¬ 
nity  from  their  birth,  may  reasonably  be  expected  to 
grow  occasionally  tired  of  it;  often  like  mixing  with 
those  the  most  who  are  least  dazzled  by  the  condescen¬ 
sion  ;  I  do  not  mean  to  say  with  the  vulgar  parvenus 
who  mistake  rudeness  for  independence  ;  — no  man  forgets 
respect  to  another  who  knows  the  value  of  respect  to 
himself ;  but  the  respect  should  be  paid  easily  ;  it  is  not 
every  Grand  Seigneur ,  who  like  Louis  XIVth,  is  only 
pleased  when  he  puts  those  he  addresses  out  of  counte¬ 
nance. 

There  was,  therefore,  much  in  the  simplicity  of  Les¬ 
ter’s  manners,  and  those  of  his  daughters,  which  rendered 
the  family  at  the  manor-house,  especial  favorites  with 
Lord  *  *  *  *  *  ;  and  the  wealthier  but  less  honored  squire- 
archs  of  the  county,  stiff  in  awkward  pride,  and  bustling 
with  yet  more  awkward  veneration,  heard  with  astonish¬ 
ment  and  anger  of  the  numerous  visits  which  his  Lord- 
ship,  in  his  brief  sojourn  at  the  castle,  always  contrived 
to  pay  to  the  Lesters,  and- the  constant  invitations  which 
they  received  to  his  most  familiar  festivities. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  ITS 

Lord  *****  was  I10  sportsman,  and  one  morning 
when  all  his  guests  were  engaged  among  the  stubbles 
of  September,  he  mounted  his  quiet  palfrey,  and  gladly 
took  his  way  to  the  manor-house. 

It  was  towards  the  latter  end  of  the  month,  and  one 
of  the  earliest  of  the  autumnal  fogs  hung  thinly  over  the 
landscape.  As  the  earl  wound  along  the  sides  of  the  hill 
on  which  his  castle  was  built,  the  scene  on  which  he 
gazed  below  received  from  the  grey  mists  capriciously 
hovering  over  it,  a  dim  and  melancholy  wildness  A 
broader  and  whiter  vapor,  that  streaked  thp  lower  part 
of  the  valley,  betrayed  the  course  of  the  rivulet ;  and 
beyond,  to  the  left,  rose  wan  and  spectral,  the  spire  of  the 
little  church  adjoining  Lester’s  abode.  As  the  horseman’s 
eye  wandered  to  this  spot,  the  sun  suddenly  broke  forth, 
and  lit  up  as  by  enchantment,  the  quiet  and  lovely  ham¬ 
let  embedded,  as  it  were,  beneath, - the  cottages,  with 

their  gay  gardens  and  jasmined  porches,  the  streamlet 
half  in  mist,  half  in  light,  while  here  and  there  columns 
of  vapor  rose  above  its  surface  like  the  chariots  of  the 
water-genii,  and  broke  into  a  thousand  hues  beneath  the 
smiles  of  the  unexpected  sun  :  But  far  to  the  right,  the 
mists  around  it  yet  unbroken,  and  the  outline  of  its  form 
only  visible,  rose  the  lone  house  of  the  student,  as  if  there 
the  sadder  spirits  of  the  air  yet  rallied  their  broken 
armaments  of  mist  and  shadow. 

The  earl  was  not  a  man  peculiarly  alive  to  scenery,  but 
he  now  involuntarily  checked  his  horse,  and  gazed  for  a 
few  moments  on  the  beautiful  and  singular  aspect  which 


m 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  landscape  had  so  suddenly  assumed  As  he  so  gazed, 
he  observed  in  a  field  at  some  little  distance,  three  or 
four  persons  gathered  around  a  bank,  and  among  them 
he  thought  he  recognized  the  comely  form  of  Rowland 
Lester.  A  second  inspection  convinced  him  that  he  was 
right  in  his’conjecture,  and  turning  from  the  road  through 
a  gap  in  the  hedge,  he  made  towards  the  group  in  ques¬ 
tion.  He  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  he  saw,  that  the 
remainder  of  the  party  was  composed  of  Lester’s  daugh¬ 
ters,  the  lover  of  the  elder,  and  a  fourth,  whom  he  rec¬ 
ognized  as  a  celebrated  French  botanist  who  had  lately 
arrived  in  England,  and  who  was  now  making  an  amateur 
excursion  throughout  the  more  attractive  districts  of  the 
island. 

The  earl  guessed  rightly,  that  Monsieur  de  N - had 

not  neglected  to  apply  to  Aram  for  assistance  in  a  pur¬ 
suit  which  the  latter  was  known  to  have  cultivated  with 
such  success,  and  that  he  had  been  conducted  hither,  as  a 
place  affording  some  specimen  or  another  not  unworthy 
of  research.  He  now,  giving  his  horse  to  his  groom, 
joined  the  group. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


175 


CHAPTER  III. 

THEREIN  THE  EARL  AND  THE  STUDENT  CONVERSE  ON 
GRAVE  BUT  DELIGHTFUL  MATTERS.  —  THE  STUDEN1  3 
NOTION  OF  THE  ONLY  EARTHLY  HAPPINESS. 


et  Aram.  If  the  witch  Hope  forbids  us  to  be  wise, 

Yet  when  I  turn  to  these  —  Woe’s  ouly  friends, 

[pointing  to  his  books,) 

And  with  their  weird  and  eloquent  voices  calm 
The  stir  and  Babel  of  the  world  within, 

I  can  but  dream  that  my  vex’d  years  at  last 
Shall  find  the  quiet  of  a  hermit’s  cell: — * 

And,  neighboring  not  this  hack’d  and  jaded  world, 
Beneath  the  lambent  eyes  of  the  loved  stars, 

And,  with  the  hollow  rocks  and  sparry  caves, 

The  tides,  and  all  the  many  music’d  winds 
My  oracles  and  co-mates:  —  watch  my  life 
Glide  down  the  Stream  of  Knowledge,  and  behold 
Its  waters  with  a  musing  stillness  glass 
The  thousand  hues  of  Nature  and  of  Heaven.” 

From  Eugene  Aram ,  a  MS.  Tragedy. 

* 

The  earl  continued  with  the  party  he  had  joined ;  and 
when  their  occupation  was  concluded  and  they  turned 
homeward,  he  accepted  the  squire’s  frank  invitation  to 
partake  of  some  refreshment  at  the  manor-house.  It  so 
chanced,  or  perhaps  the  earl  so  contrived  it,  that  Aram 
and  himself,  in  their  way  to  the  village,  lingered  a  little 
behind  the  rest,  and  that  their  conversation  was  thus,  for 
a  few  minutes,  not  altogether  general. 


M 


1*7  6 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Is  it  I,  Mr  Aram  ?  ”  said  the  earl  smiling,  “  or  is  it 
Fate,  that  has  made  you  a  convert  ?  The  last  time  we 
sagely  and  quietly  conferred  together,  you  contended  that 
the  more  the  circle  of  existence  was  contracted,  the  more 
we  clung  to  a  state  of  pure  and  all  self-dependent  intel¬ 
lect,  the  greater  our  chance  of  happiness.  Thus  you 
denied  that  we  were  rendered  happier  by  our  luxuries,  by 
our  ambition,  or  by  our  affections.  Love  and  its  ties 
were  banished  from  your  solitary  Utopia.  And  you 
asserted  that  the  true  wisdom  of  life  lay  solely  in  the 
cultivation  —  not  of  our  feelings,  but  our  faculties.  You 
know,  I  held  a  different  doctrine :  and  it  is  with  the 
natural  triumph  of  a  hostile  partizan,  that  I  hear  you  are 
about  to  relinquish  the  practice  of  one  of  your  dogmas ; 
—  in  consequence,  may  I  hope,  of  having  forsworn  the 
theory  ?  ” 

“Not  so,  my  lord,”  answered  Aram,  coloring  slightly; 
“  my  weakness  only  proves  that  my  theory  is  difficult, — 
not  that  it  is  wrong.  I  still  venture  to  think  it  true. 
More  pain  than  pleasure  is  occasioned  us  by  others  — 
banish^others,  and  you  are  necessarily  the  gainer.  Men¬ 
tal  activity  and  moral  quietude  are  the  two  states  which, 
were  they  perfected  and  united,  would  constitute  perfect 
happiness.  It  is  such  a  union  which  constitutes  all  we 
imagine  of  heaven,  or  conceive  of  the  majestic  felicity 
.  of  a  God.” 

“  Yet,  while  you  are  on  earth  you  will  be  (believe  me) 
happier  in  the  state  you  are  about  to  choose,”  said  the 
earl.  “  Who  could  look  at  that  enchanting  face  (the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


117 


speaker  directed  his  eyes  towards  Madeline)  and  not  feel 
that  it  gave  a  pledge  of  happiness  that  could  not  be 
broken  ?  ” 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  Aram  to  like  any  allusion 
to  himself,  and  still  less  to  his  affections :  he  turned  aside 
his  head,  and  remained  silent :  the  wary  earl  discovered 
his  indiscretion  immediately. 

“But  let  us  put  aside  individual  cases,”  said  he, — 
“the  meum  and  the  tuum  forbid  all  general  argument: 
• — and  confess,  that  there  is  for  the  majority  of  human 
beings  a  greater  happiness  in  love  than  in  the  sublime 
state  of  passionless  intellect  to  which  you  would  so  chill¬ 
ingly  exalt  us.  Has  not  Cicero  said  wisely,  that  we 
ought  no  more  to  subject  too  slavishly  our  affections,  than 
to  elevate  them  too  imperiously  into  our  masters  ?  Ne- 
que  se  nimiu.m  erigere,  nec  subjacere  sei'viliter 

“  Cicero  loved  philosophizing  better  than  philosophy,” 
said  Aram  coldly ;  “  but  surely,  my  lord,  the  affections 
give  us  pain  as  well  as  pleasure.  The  doubt,  the  dread, 
the  restlessness  of  love, —  surely  these  prevent  the  passion 
from  constituting  a  happy  state  of  mind ;  to  me  one 
knowledge  alone  seems  sufficient  to  embitter  all  its  enjoy¬ 
ments, —  the  knowledge  that  the  object  beloved  must  die. 
What  a  perpetuity  of  fear  that  knowledge  creates  !  The 
avamnche  that  may  crush  us  depends  upon  a  single 
breath !  ” 

“  Is  not  that  too  refined  a  sentiment  ?  Custom  surely 
blunts  us  to  every  chance,  every  danger,  that  may  hap¬ 
pen  to  us  hourly.  Were  the  avalanche  over  you  for  a 


178 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


day, —  I  grant  your  state  of  torture, — but  had  an  ava¬ 
lanche  rested  over  you  for  years,  and  not  yet  fallen,  you 
would  forget  that  it  could  ever  fall ;  you  would  eat, 
sleep,  and  make  love,  as  if  it  were  not  1  ” 

•  Ha!  my  lord,  you  say  well  —  you  say  well,”  said 
Aram,  with  a  marked  change  of  countenance,  and,  quick¬ 
ening  his  pace,  he  joined  Lester’s  side,  and  the  thread 
of  the  previous  conversation  was  broken  off. 

The  earl  afterwards,  in  walking  through  the  gardens 
(an  excursion  which  he  proposed  himself,  for  he  was 
somewhat  of  an  horticulturist),  took  an  opportunity  to 
renew  the  subject. 

“You  will  pardon  me,”  said  he,  “but  I  cannot  con¬ 
vince  myself  that  man  would  be  happier  were  he  without 
emotions;  and  that  to  enjoy  life  he  should  be  solely 
dependent  on  himself !  ” 

“Yet  it  seems  to  me,”  said  Aram,  “  a  truth  easy  of 
proof ;  if  we  love,  we  place  our  happiness  in  others. 
The  moment  we  place  our  happiness  in  others,  comes 
uncertainty,  but  uncertainty  is  the  bane  of  happiness. 
Children  are  the  source  of  anxiety  to  their  parents ;  — 
his  mistress  to  the  lover.  Change,  accident,  death,  all 
menace  us  in  each  person  whom  we  regard.  Every  new 
tie  opens  new  channels  by  which  grief  can  invade  us ; 
but,  you  will  say,  by  which  joy  also  can  flow  in  ;  — grant¬ 
ed  !  But  in  human  life  is  there  not  more  grief  than  joy  ? 
What  is  it  that  renders  the  balance  even  ?  What  makes 
the  staple  of  our  happiness, —  endearing  to  us  the  life  at 
which  we  should  otherwise  repine  ?  It  is  the  mere  passive. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


179 

yet  stirring,  consciousness  of  life  itself !  —  of  the  sun  and 
the  air  of  the  physical  being  ;  but  this  consciousness 
every  emotion  disturbs.  Yet  could  you  add  to  its  tran¬ 
quillity  an  excitement  that  never  exhausts  itself, —  that  be¬ 
comes  refreshed,  not  sated,  with  every  new  possession, 
then  you  would  obtain  happiness.  There  is  only  one 
excitement  of  this  divine  order,  —  that  of  intellectual 
culture.  Behold  now  my  theory  !  Examine  it  —  it  con¬ 
tains  no  flaw.  But  if,”  renewed  Aram  after  a  pause,  “a 
man  is  subject  to  fate  solely  in  himself,  not  in  others,  he 
soon  hardens  his  mind  against  all  fear,  and  prepares  it 
for  all  events.  A  little  philosophy  enables  him  to  bear 
bodily  pain,  or  the  common  infirmities  of  flesh  :  by  a 
philosophy  somewhat  deeper,  he  can  conquer  the  ordi¬ 
nary  reverses  of  fortune,  the  dread  of  shame,  and  the  last 
calamity  of  death.  But  what  philosophy  could  ever  tho¬ 
roughly  console  him  for  the  ingratitude  of  a  friend,  the 
worthlessness  of  a  child,  the  death  of  a  mistress  ?  Hence, 
only  when  he  stands  alone,  can  a  man’s  soul  say  to  Fate, 
*  I  defy  thee.’  ” 

“You  think  then,”  said  the  earl,  reluctantly  diverting 
the  conversation  into  a  new  channel,  “  that  in  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge  lies  our  only  active  road  to  real  happiness. 
Yet  here  how  eternal  must  be  the  disappointments  even 
of  the  most  successful !  Does  not  Boyle  tell  us  of  a  man 
who,  after  devoting  his  whole  life  to  the  study  of  one 
mineral,  confessed  himself,  at  last,  ignorant  of  all  its 
properties  ?  ” 

I.  — 16 


180 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Had  the  object  of  his  study  been  himself,  and  not  the 
mineral,  he  would  not  have  been  so  unsuccessful  a  student,” 
said  Aram,  smiling.  “  Yet,”  added  he,  in  a  graver  tone, 
“  we  do  indeed  cleave  the  vast  heaven  of  truth  with  a 
weak  and  crippled  wing :  and  often  we  are  appalled  in 
our  way  by  a  dread  sense  of  the  immensity  around  us, 
and  of  the  inadequacy  of  our  own  strength.  But  there 
is  a  rapture  in  the  breath  of  the  pure  and  difficult  air, 
and  in  the  progress  by  which  we  compass  earth,  the  while 
we  draw  nearer  to  the  stars, —  that  again  exalts  us  beyond 
ourselves,  and  reconciles  the  true  student  unto  all  things, 
—  even  to  the  hardest  of  them  all, —  the  conviction  how 
feebly  our  performance  can  ever  imitate  the  grandeur  of 
our  ambition  !  As  you  see  the  spark  fly  upward, —  some¬ 
times  not  falling  to  earth  till  it  be  dark  and  quenched, — 
thus  soars,  whither  it  recks  not,  so  that  the  direction  be 
above,  the  luminous  spirit  of  him  who  aspires  to  Truth  ; 
nor  will  It  back  to  the  vile  and  heavy  clay  from  which  it 
sprang,  until  the  light  which  bore  it  upward  be  no  more. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


181 


CHAPTER  IY. 

A  DEEPER  EXAMINATION  INTO  THE  STUDENT’S  HEART.  — 
THE  VISIT  TO  THE  CASTlJfc.  —  PHILOSOPHY  PUT  TO  THE 
TRIAL. 


“  I  w<iigh  not  fortune’s  frown  or  smile, 

I  joy  not  much  in  earthly  joys, 

I  seek  not  state,  I  seek  not  style, 

I  am  not  fond  of  fancy’s  toys; 

I  rest  so  pleased  Avith  what  I  have, 

I  wish  no  more,  no  more  I  crave.” 

Joshua  Sylvester. 

The  reader  must  pardon  me,  if  I  somewhat  clog  his 
interest  in  ray  tale  by  the  brief  conversations  I  have 
given,  and  must  for  a  short  while  cast  myself  on  his  in¬ 
dulgence  and  renew.  It  is  not  only  the  history  of  his 
life,  but  the  character  and  tone  of  Aram’s  mind,  that  I 
wish  to  stamp  upon  my  page.  Fortunately,  however, 
the  path  my  story  assumes  is  of  such  a  nature,  that  in 
order  to  effect  this  object,  I  shall  never  have  to  desert, 
and  scarcely  again  even  to  linger  by  the  way. 

Every  one  knows  the  magnificent  moral  of  Goethe’s 
“  Faust !  ”  Every  one  knows  that  sublime  discontent  — 
that  chaf  e g  at  the  bounds- of  human  knowledge  —  that 
yearning  for  the  intellectual  paradise  beyond,  which  “  the 
sword'*d  angel  ”  forbids  us  to  approach  —  that  daring, 


182 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


yet  sorrowful  state  of  mind — that  sense  of  defeat,  even 
in  conquest,  which  Goethe  has  embodied  —  a  picture  of 
the  loftiest  grief  of  which  the  soul  is  capable,  and  which 
may  remind  us  of  the  profound  and  august  melancholy 
which  the  Great  Sculptor  breathed  into  the  repose  of  the 
noblest  of  mythological  heroes,  when  he  represented  the 
God  resting  after  his  labors,  as  if  more  convinced  of 
their  vanity  than  elated  with  their  extent ! 

In  this  portrait,  the  grandeur  of  which  the  wild  scenes 
that  follow  in  the  drama  we  refer  to,  do  not  (strangely 
wonderful  as  they  are)  perhaps  altogether  sustain,  Goethe 
has  bequeathed  to  the  gaze  of  a  calmer  and  more  practi¬ 
cal  posterity,  the  burning  and  restless  spirit  —  the  feverish 
desire  for  knowledge  more  vague  than  useful,  which  cha¬ 
racterized  the  exact  epoch  in  the  intellectual  history  of 
Germany,  in  which  the  poem  was  inspired  and  produced. 

At  these  bitter  waters,  the  Marah  of  the  streams  of 
Wisdom,  the  soul  of  the  man  whom  we  have  made  the 
hero  of  these  pages,  had  also,  and  not  lightly,  quaffed. 
The  properties  of  a  mind,  more  calm  and  stern  than  be¬ 
longed  to  the  visionaries  of  the  Hartz  and  the  Danube, 
might  indeed  have  preserved  him  from  that  thirst  after 
the  impossibilities  of  knowledge,  which  gives  so  peculiar 
a  romance,  not  only  to  the  poetry,  but  the  philosophy 
of  the  German  people.  But  if  he  rejected  the  supersti¬ 
tions,  he  did  not  also  reject  the  bewilderments  of  the 
mind.  He  loved  to  plunge  into  the  dark  and  metaphys¬ 
ical  subtleties  which  human  genius  has  called  daringly 
forth  from  the  realities  of  things:  — 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


18a 


- “  To  spin 

A  shroud  of  thought ,  to  hide  him  from  the  sun 
Of  this  familiar  life,  which  seems  to  be, 

But  is  not  —  or  is  but  quaint  mockery 
Of  all  we  would  believe ;  — or  sadly  blame 
The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame 
Of  this  wrong  world :  and  then  anatomize 
The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  man,  whose  eyes 
Were  closed  in  distant  years;  or  widely  guess 
The  issue  of  the  earth’s  great  business. 

When  we  shall  be,  as  we  no  longer  are, 

Like  babbling  gossips,  safe,  who  hear  the  war 
Of  winds,  and  sigh!  —  but  tremble  not!” 

Much  in  him  was  a  type,  or  rather  forerunner,  of  the 
Intellectual  spirit  that  broke  forth  when  we  were  children 
among  our  countrymen,  and  is  now  slowly  dying  away 
amidst  the  loud  events  and  absorbing  struggles  of  the 
awakening  world.  But  in  one  respect  he  stood  aloof 
from  all  his  tribe  —  in  his  hard  indifference  to  worldly 
ambition,  and  his  contempt  of  fame.  As  some  sages  have 
seemed  to  think  the  universe  a  dream,  and  self  the  only 
reality ,  so  in  his  austere  and  collected  reliance  upon  his 
own  mind  —  the  gathering  in,  as  it  were,  of  his  resources, 
he  appeared  to  consider  the  pomps  of  the  world  as 
shadows,  and  the  life  of  his  own  spirit  the  only  substance. 
He  had  built  a  city  and  a  tower  within  the  Shinar  of  his 
own  heart,  whence  he  might  look  forth,  unscathed  and 
unmoved,  upon  the  deluge  that  broke  over  the  rest  of 
earth. 

Only  in  one  instance,  and  that,  as  we  have  seen,  after 
much  struggle,  he  had  given  way  to  the  emotions  that 
agitate  his  kind,  and  had  surrer  dered  himself  to  the 
16* 


184 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


* 


dominion  of  another.  This  was  against  his  theories  — 
but  what  theories  ever  resist  love  ?  In  yielding,  however, 
thus  far,  he  seemed  more  on  his  guard  than  ever  against 
a  broader  encroachment.  He  had  admitted  one  ‘  fair 
spirit  ’  for  his  1  minister,’  but  it  was  only  with  a  deeper 
fervor  to  invoke  ‘the  desert’  as  his  ‘dwelling-place.’ 
Thus,  when  the  earl,  who,  like  most  practical  judges 
of  mankind,  loved  to  apply  to  each  individual  the  mo¬ 
tives  that  actuate  the  mass,  aud  who  only  unwillingly,  and 
somewhat  sceptically,  assented  to  the  exceptions,  and  was 
driven  to  search  for  peculiar  clues  to  the  eccentric  in¬ 
stance, —  finding,  to  his  secret  triumph,  that  Aram  had 
admitted  one  intruding  emotion  into  his  boasted  circle 
of  indifference,  imagined  that  he  should  easily  induce 
him  (the  spell  once  broken)  to  receive  another,  he  was 
surprised  and  puzzled  to  discover  himself  in  the  wrong. 

Lord - at  that  time  had  been  lately  called  into  the 

administration,  and  he  was  especially  anxious  to  secure 
the  support  of  all  the  talent  that  he  could  enlist  in  its 
behalf.  The  times  were  those  in  which  party  ran  high, 
and  in  which  individual  political  writings  were  honored 
with  an  importance  which  the  periodical  press  in  general 
has  now  almost  wholly  monopolized.  On  the  side  op¬ 
posed  to  government,  writers  of  great  name  and  high 
attainments  had  shone  with  peculiar  effect,  and  the  earl 
was  naturally  desirous  that  they  should  be  opposed  by  an 
equal  array  of  intellect  on  the  side  espoused  by  himself. 
The  name  alone  of  Eugene  Aram,  at  a  day  when  scholar¬ 
ship  was  renown,  would  have  been  no  ordinary  acquisition 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


185 


to  the  cause  of  the  earl’s  party ;  but  that  judicious  and 
penetrating  nobleman  perceived  that  Aram’s  abilities,  his 
various  research,  his  extended  views,  his  facility  of  argu¬ 
ment,  and  the  heat  and  energy  of  his  eloquence,  might 
be  rendered  of  an  importance  which  could  not  have  been 
anticipated  from  the  name  alone,  however  eminent,  of  a 
retired  and  sedentary  scholar  ;  he  was  not  therefore  with¬ 
out  an  interested  motive  in  the  attentions  he  now  lavished 
upon  the  student,  and  in  his  curiosity  to  put  to  the  proof 
the  disdain  of  all  worldly  enterprise  and  worldly  tempta¬ 
tion,  which  Aram  affected.  He  could  not  but  think,  that 
to  a  man  poor  and  lowly  of  circumstance,  conscious  of 
superior  acquirements,  about  to  increase  his  wants  by 
admitting  to  them  a  partner,  and  arrived  at  that  age 
when  the  calculations  of  interest  and  the  whispers  of  am¬ 
bition  have  usually  most  weight  ; — he  could  not  but 
think  that  to  such  a  man  the  dazzling  prospects  of  social 
advancement,  the  hope  of  high  fortunes,  and  the  power¬ 
ful  and  glittering  influence  which  political  life,  in  Eng¬ 
land,  offers  to  the  aspirant,  might  be  rendered  altogether 
irresistible. 

He  took  several  opportunities  in  the  course  of  the 
next  week,  of  renewing  his  conversation  with  Aram,  and 
of  artfully  turning  it  into  the  channels  which  he  thought 
most  likely  to  produce  the  impression  he  desired  to  cre¬ 
ate.  He  was  somewhat  baffled,  but  by  no  means  dispirit¬ 
ed,  in  his  attempts ;  but  he  resolved  to  defer  his  ultimate 
proposition  until  it  could  be  made  to  the  fullest  advan¬ 
tage.  He  had  engaged  the  Lesters  to  promise  to  pass  a 


186 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


day  at  the  castle  ;  and  with  great  difficulty,  and  at  the 
earnest  intercession  of  Madeline,  Aram  was  prevailed 
upon  to  accompany  them.  So  extreme  was  his  distaste 
to  general  society,  and  from  some  motive  or  another 
more  powerful  than  mere  constitutional  reserve,  so  inva¬ 
riably  had  he  for  years  resisted  all  temptations  to  enter 
it,  that  natural  as  this  concession  was  rendered  by  his 
approaching  marriage  to  one  of  the  party,  it  filled  him 
with  a  sort  of  terror  and  foreboding  of  evil.  It  was  as 
if  he  was  passing  beyond  the  boundary  of  some  law,  on 
which  the  very  tenure  of  his  existence  depended.  After 
he  had  consented,  a  trembling  came  over  him  ;  he  hastily 
left  the  room,  and  till  the  day  arrived,  was  observed  by 
his  friends  of  the  manor-house  to  be  more  gloomy  and 
abstracted  than  they  ever  had  known  him,  even  at  the 
earliest  period  of  acquaintance. 

On  the  day  itself,  as  .they  proceeded  to  the  castle, 
Madeline  perceived  with  tearful  repentance  of  her  inter¬ 
ference,  that  he  sate  by  her  side  cold  and  wrapt ;  and 
that  once  or  twice  when  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her,  it  was 
with  an  expression  of  reproach  and  distrust. 

It  Was  not  till  they  entered  the  lofty  hall  of  the  castle, 
when  a  vulgar  diffidence  would  have  been  most  abashed, 
that  Aram  recovered  himself.  The  earl  was  standing — . 
the  centre  of  a  group  in  the  recess  of  a  window  in  the 
saloon,  opening  upon  an  extensive  and  stately  terrace.  * 
He  came  forward  to  receive  them  with  a  polished  and 
warm  kindness  which  he  bestowed  upon  all  his  inferior's 
in  rank.  He  complimented  the  sisters  j  he  jested  witn 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


181 


Lester ;  but  to  Aram  only,  he  manifested  less  the  cour 
tesy  of  kindness  than  of  respect.  He  took  his  arm,  and 
leaning  on  it  with  a  light  touch,  led  him  to  the  group  at 
the  window.  It  was -composed  of  the  most  distinguished 
public  men  in  the  country,  and  among  them  (the  earl  him¬ 
self  was  connected  through  an  illegitimate  branch  with  the 
reigning  monarch,)  was  a  prince  of  the  blood-royal 
To  these,  whom  he  had  prepared  for  the  introduction, 
he  severally,  and  with  an  easy  grace,  presented  Aram, 
and  then  falling  back  a  few  steps,  he  watched  with  a  keen 
but  seemingly  careless  eye,  the  effect  which  so  sudden  a 
contact  with  royalty  itself  would  produce  on  the  mind 
of  the  shy  and  secluded  student,  whom  it  was  his  object 
to  dazzle  and  overpower.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  the 
native  dignity  of  Aram,  which  his  studies,  unworldly  as 
they  were,  had  certainly  tended  to  increase,  displayed 
itself,  in  a  trial  which,  poor  as  it  was  in  abstract  theory, 
was  far  from  despicable  in  the  eyes  of  the  sensible  and 
practised  courtier.  He  received  with  his  usual  modesty, 
but  not  with  his  usual  shrinking  and  embarrassment  on  such 
occasions,  the  compliments  he  received  ;  a  certain  and 
far  from  ungraceful  pride  was  mingled  with  his  simpli¬ 
city  of  demeanor  ;  no  fluttering  of  manner,  betrayed  that 
he  was  either  dazzled  or  humbled  by  the  presence  in 
which  he  stood,  and  the  earl  could  not  but  confess  that 
there  was  never  a  more  favorable  opportunity  for  compar¬ 
ing  the  aristocracy  of  genius  with  that  of  birth  ;  it  was 
one  of  those  homely  every-day  triumphs  of  intellect, 
which  please  us  more  than  they  ought  to  do,  for,  after  all, 


188 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


they  are  more  common  than  the  men  of  courts  are  willing 
to  believe. 

Lord  *****  did  not  nowever  long  leave  Aram  to  the 
sapport  of  his  own  unassisted  presence  of  mind  and 
calmness  of  nerve ;  he  advanced,  and  led  the  conversa¬ 
tion,  with  his  usual  tact,  into  a  course  which  might  at 
once  please  Aram,  and  afford  him  the  opportunity  to 
shine.  The  earl  had  imported  from  Italy  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  specimens  of  classic  sculpture  which  this 
country  now  possesses.  These  were  disposed  in  niches 
around  the  magnificent  apartment  in  which  the  guests 
were  assembled,  and  as  the  earl  pointed  them  out,  and 
illustrated  each  from  the  beautiful  anecdotes  and  golden 
allusions  of  antiquity,  he  felt  that  he  was  affording  to 
Aram  a  gratification  he  could  never  have  experienced 
before  ;  and  in  the  expression  of  which,  the  grace  and 
copiousness  of  his  learning  would  find  vent.  Nor  was 
he  disappointed.  The  cheek,  which  till  then  had  retained 
its  steady  paleness,  now  caught  the  glow  of  enthusiasm  ; 
and  in  a  few  moments  there  was  not  a  person  in  the 
group,  who  did  not  feel,  and  cheerfully  feel,  the  superior¬ 
ity  of  the  one,  who,  in  birth  and  fortune,  wras  immeasure- 
ably  the  lowest  of  all. 

The  English  aristocracy,  whatever  be  the  faults  of  their 
education  (and  certainly  the  name  of  the  faults  is  legion  !) 
have  at  least  the  merit  of  being  alive  to  the  possession, 
and  easily  warmed  to  the  possessor,  of  classical  attain¬ 
ment  :  perhaps  even  from  this  very  merit  spring  many 
of  the  faults  we  allude  to  ;  they  are  too  apt  to  judge  all 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


189 


talent  by  a  classical  standard,  and  all  theory  by  classical 
experience.  Without,  —  save  in  very  rare  instances, — • 
the  right  to  boast  of  any  deep  learning,  they  are  far  more 
susceptible  than  the  nobility  of  any  other  nation  to  the 
spirium  Camcence.  They  are  easily  and  willingly  charm' 
ed  back  to  the  studies  which,  if  not  eagerly  pursued  in 
youth,  are  still  entwined  with  all  their  youth’s  brightest 
recollections ;  the  school-boy’s  prize,  and  the  master’s 
praise, —  the  first  ambition  and  its  first  reward.  A  felici¬ 
tous  quotation,  a  delicate  allusion,  is  never  lost  upon 
their  ear ;  and  the  veneration  which  at  Eaton  they  bore 
to  the  best  verse-maker  in  the  school,  tinctures  their 
judgment  of  others  throughout  life,  mixing  I  know  not 
what,  both  of  liking  and  esteem,  with  their  admiration 
of  one  who  uses  his  classical  weapons  with  a  scholar’s 
dexterity,  not  a  pedant’s  inaptitude :  for  such  a  one 
there  is  a  sort  of  agreeable  confusion  in  their  respect ; 
they  are  inclined,  unconsciously,  to  believe,  that  he  must 
necessarily  be  a  high  gentleman  —  ay,  and  something  of 
a  good  fellow  into  the  bargain. 

It  happened  then  that  Aram  could  not  have  dwelt 
upon  a  theme  more  likely  to  arrest  the  spontaneous  inter¬ 
est  of  those  with  whom  he  now  conversed  —  men  them¬ 
selves  of  more  cultivated  minds  than  usual,  and  more 
capable  than  most  (from  that  acute  perception  of  real 
talent,  which  is  produced  by  habitual  political  warfare,) 
of  appreciating  not  only  his  endowments,  but  his  facility 
in  applying  them. 

“You  are  right,  my  lord,”  said  Sir 


/ 


,  the  whip- 


190 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


per-in  of  the  *****  party,  taking  the  earl  aside;  “he 
would  make  an  inestimable  pamphleteer.” 

“  Could  you  get  him  to  write  us  a  sketch  of  the  state 
of  parties  ;  luminous,  eloquent  ?  ”  &c.,  whispered  a  lord 
of  the  bed-chamber. 

The  earl  answered  by  a  bon  mot,  and  turned  to  a  bust- 
of  Caracalla. 

The  hours  at  that  time  were  (in  the  country  at  least) 
not  late,  and  the  earl  was  one  of  the  first  introducers  of 
the  polished  fashion  of  France,  by  which  we  testify  a 
preference  of  the  society  of  the  women  to  that  of  our 
own  sex;  so  that,  in  leaving  the  dining-room,  it  was  not 
so  late  but  that  the  greater  part  of  the  guests  walked  out 
upon  the  terrace,  and  admired  the  expanse  of  country 
which  it  overlooked,  and  along  which  the  thin  veil  of  the 
twilight  began  now  to  hover. 

Having  safely  deposited  his  royal  guest  at  a  whist 
table,  and  thus  left  himself  a  free  agent,  the  earl,  inviting 
Aram  to  join  him,  sauntered  among  the  loiterers  on  the 
terrace  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  descended  a  broad 
flight  of  steps,  which  brought  them  into  a  more  shaded 
and  retired  walk  ;  on  either  side  of  which  rows  of  orange- 
trees  gave  forth  their  fragrance,  while,  to  the  right,  sud¬ 
den  and  numerous  vistas  were  cut  among  the  more  irreg¬ 
ular  and  dense  foliage,  affording  glimpses  —  now  of  some 
rustic  statue  —  now  of  some  lone  temple  —  now  of  some 
quaint  fountain,  on  the  play  of  whose  waters  the  first 
stars  had  begun  to  tremble. 

It  was  one  of  those  magnificent  gardens,  modelled 


EUGE  NE  AR  AM. 


191 


from  the  stately  glories  of  Versailles,  which  it  is  now  the 
mode  to  decry,  but  which  breathe  so  unequivocally  of  the 
palace.  I  grant  that  they  deck  nature  with  somewhat 
too  prolix  a  grace ;  but  is  beauty  always  best  seen  in 
deshabille  ?  And  with  what  associations  of  the  bright¬ 
est  traditions  connected  with  nature  they  link  her  more 
luxuriant  loveliness  !  Must  we  breathe  only  the  malaria 
of  Rome  to  be  capable  of  feeling  the  interest  attached 
to  the  fountain  or  the  statue  ? 

“  I  am  glad,”  said  the  earl,  “  that  you  admired  my  bust 
of  Cicero  —  it  is  from  an  original  very  lately  discovered. 
What  grandeur  in  the  brow  !  —  what  energy  in  the 
mouth,  and  downward  bend  of  the  head  !  It  is  pleasant 
even  to  imagine  we  gaze  upon  the  likeness  of  so  bright  a 
spirit ;  —  and  confess,  at  least  of  Cicero,  that  in  reading 
the  aspirations  and  outpourings  of  his  miud,  you  have 
shared  the  desire  to  live  to  the  future  age, —  ‘the  longing 
after  immortality  ?  1  n 

“  Was  it  not  that  longing,”  replied  Aram,  “  which  gave 
to  the  character  of  Cicero  its  poorest  and  most  frivolous 
infirmity  ?  Has  it  not  made  him,  glorious  as  he  is  des¬ 
pite  of  it,  a  by- word  in  the  mouth  of  every  school-boy  ? 
Wherever  you  mention  his  genius,  do  you  not  hear  an 
appendix  on  his  vanity  ?  ” 

“  Yet  without  that  vanity,  that  desire  for  a  name  with 
posterity,  would  he  have  been  equally  great  —  would  he 
equally  have  cultivated  his  genius  ?  ” 

“  Probably,  my  lord,  he  would  not  have  equally  culti¬ 
vated  his  genius,  but  in  reality  he  might  have  been  equal- 
I.  — 17  N 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


19fc 

ly  great.  A  man  often  injures  his  mind  by  the  means 
which  increase  his  genius.  You  think  this,  my  lord,  a 
paradox,  but  examine  it.  How  many  men  of  genius  have 
been  but  ordinary  men,  take  them  from  the  particular 
objects  in  which  they  shine.  Why  is  this,  but  that  in 
cultivating  one  branch  of  intellect  they  neglect  the  rest  ? 
Nay,  the  very  torpor  of  the  reasoning  faculty  has  often 
kindled  the  imaginative.  Lucretius  composed  his  sub¬ 
lime  poem  under  the  influence  of  a  delirium.  The  sus¬ 
ceptibilities  that  we  create  or  refine  by  the  pursuit  of  one 
object,  weaken  our  general  reason  ;  and  I  may  compare 
with  some  justice  the  powers  of  the  mind  to  the  faculties 
of  the  body,  in  which  squinting  is  occasioned  by  an  ine¬ 
quality  of  strength  in  the  eyes,  and  discordance  of  voice 
by  the  same  inequality  in  the  ears.” 

“I  believe  you  are  right,”  said  the  earl;  “yet  I  own 
I  willingly  forgive  Cicero  for  his  vanity,  if  it  contributed 
to  the  production  of  his  orations  and  his  essays ;  and  he 
is  a  greater  man,  even  with  his  vanity  unconquered,  than 
if  he  had  conquered  his  foible,  and  in  doing  so  taken 
away  the  incitements  to  his  genius.” 

“  A  greater  man  in  the  world’s  eye,  my  lord,  but 
scarcely  in  reality.  Had  Homer  written  his  Iliad  and 
then  burnt  it,  would  his  genius  have  been  less  ?  The 
world  would  have  known  nothing  of  him,  but  would  he 
have  been  a  less  extraordinary  man  on  that  account  ? 
We  are  too  apt,  my  lord,  to  confound  greatness  with 
fame.” 

“  There  is  one  circumstance,”  added  Aram  after  a 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


.93 


pause,  “that  should  diminish  our  respect  for  renown 
Errors  of  life,  as  well  as  foibles  of  characters,  are  often 
the  real  enhancers  of  celebrity.  Without  his  errors,  I 
doubt  whether  Henri  Qualre  would  have  become  the 
idol  of  a  people.  How  many  Whartons  has  the  world 
known,  who,  deprived  of  their  frailties,  had  been  inglori¬ 
ous  J  The  light  that  you  so  much  admire,  reaches  you 
only  through  the  distance  of  time,  on  account  of  the 
angles  and  unevenness  of  the  body  whence  it  emanates. 
Were  the  surface  of  the  moon  smooth,  it  would  be  invisi¬ 
ble.’’ 

“  I  admire  your  illustrations,”  said  the  earl ;  “  but  1 
reluctantly  submit  to  your  reasonings.  You  would  then 
neglect  your  powers  lest  they  should  lead  you  into 
errors  ?  ” 

“Pardon  me,  my  lord;  it  is  because  I  think  all  the 
powers  should  be  cultivated,  that  I  quarrel  with  the  ex¬ 
clusive  cultivation  of  one.  And  it  is  only  because  I 
would  strengthen  the  whole  mind  that  I  dissent  from  the 
reasonings  of  those  who  tell  you  to  consult  your  genius.” 

“But  your  genius  may  serve  mankind  more  than  this 
general  cultivation  of  intellect  ?  ” 

“My  lord,”  replied  Aram,  with  a  mournful  cloud  upon 
his  countenance  ;  “  that  argument  may  have  weight  with 
those  who  think  mankind  can  be  effectually  served,  though 
they  may  be  often  dazzled,  by  the  labors  of  an  individual. 
But,  indeed,  this  perpetual  talk  of  ‘  mankind  ’  signifies 
nothing  :  each  of  us  consults  his  proper  happiness,  and 


/ 


104 


EUGENE  ARAM. 

we  consider  him  a  madman  who  ruins  his  own  peace  oi 
mind  by  an  everlasting  fretfulness  of  philanthropy.” 

This  was  a  doctrine  that  half  pleased,  half  displeased 
the  earl  —  it  shadowed  forth  the  most  dangerous  notions 
which  Aram  entertained. 

“Well,  well,”  said  the  noble  host,  as,  after  a  short  con¬ 
test  on  the  ground  of  his  guest’s  last  remark,  they  left 
off  where  they  began,  “  Let  us  drop  these  general  discus¬ 
sions  :  I  have  a  particular  proposition  to  unfold.  We 
have,  I  trust,  Mr.  Aram,  seen  enough  of  each  other,  to 
feel  that  we  can  lay  a  sure  foundation  for  mutual  esteem. 
For  my  part,  I  own  frankly,  that  I  have  never  met  with 
one  who  inspired  me  with  a  sincerer  admiration.  I  am 
desirous  that  your  talents  and  great  learning  should  be 
known  in  the  widest  sphere.  You  may  despise  fame,  but 
you  must  permit  your  friends  the  weakness  to  wish  you 
justice,  and  themselves  triumph.  You  know  my  post  in 
the  present  administration  —  the  place  of  my  secretary 
is  one  of  great  trust  —  some  influence,  and  large  emolu¬ 
ment.  I  offer  it  to  you  —  accept  it,  and  you  will  confer 
upon  me  an  honor  and  an  obligation.  You  will  have 
your  own  separate  house,  or  apartments  in  mine  solely 
appropriated  to  your  use.  Your  privacy  will  never  bo 
disturbed.  Every  arrangement  shall  be  made  for  your¬ 
self  and  your  bride,  that  either  of  you  can  suggest. 
Leisure  for  your  own  pursuits  you  will  have,  too,  in  abun¬ 
dance —  there  are  others  who  will  perform  all  that  is  toil¬ 
some  in  your  office.  In  London  you  will  see  around  you 
the  most  eminent  living  men  of  all  nations,  and  in  all 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


195 


pursuits.  If  you  contract  (which  believe  me  is  possible 
—  it  is  a  tempting  game,)  any  inclination  towards  public 
life,  you  will  have  the  most  brilliant  opportunities  afford¬ 
ed  you,  and  I  foretell  you  the  most  signal  success. 
Stay  yet  one  moment: — for  this  you  will  owe  me  no 
thanks.  Were  I  not  sensible  that  I  consult  my  own 
interests  in  this  proposal,  I  should  be  courtier  enough  to 
suppress  it.” 

“  My  lord,”  said  Aram,  in  a  voice  which,  in  spite  of 
its  calmness,  betrayed  that  he  was  affected,  “  it  seldom 
happens  to  a  man  of  my  secluded  habits,  and  lowly  pur¬ 
suits,  to  have  the  philosophy  he  affects  put  to  so  severe  a 
trial.  I  am  grateful  to  you  —  deeply  grateful  for  an 
offer  so  munificent  —  so  undeserved.  I  am  yet  more 
grateful  that  it  allows  me  to  sound  the  strength  of  my 
own  heart,  and  to  find  that  I  did  not  too  highly  rate  it. 
Look,  my  lord,  from  the  spot  where  we  now  stand  ”  (the 
moon  had  risen,  and  they  had  now  returned  to  the  ter¬ 
race)  :  “in  the  vale  below,  and  far  among  those  trees, 
lies  my  home.  More  than  two  i  ears  ago,  I  came  thither 
to  fix  the  resting  place  of  a  sad  and  troubled  spirit. 
There  have  I  centered  all  my  wishes  and  my  hopes  ;  and 
there  may  I  breathe  my  last !  My  lord,  you  will  not 
think  me  ungrateful,  that  my  choice  is  made  ;  and  you 
will  not  blame  my  motive,  though  you  may  despise  my 
wisdom  ” 

But,”  said  the  earl  astonished,  “you  cannot  foresee 
all  the  advantages  you  would  renounce.  At  your  age  — 
with  your  intellect  —  to  choose  the  living  sepulchre  of  a 

17  * 


L96 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


hermitage  —  it  was  wise  to  reconcile  yourself  to  it,  but 
not  to  prefer  it!  Nay,  nay;  consider  —  pause.  I  am 
in  no  haste  for  your  decision  ;  and  what  advantages  have 
you  in  your  retreat,  that  you  will  not  possess  in  a  greater 
degree  with  me  ?  Quiet  ?  —  I  pledge  it  to  you  under  my 
roof.  Solitude  ?  — you  shall  have  it  at  your  will.  Books  ? 
what  are  those  which  you,  which  any  individual  possess¬ 
es,  to  the  public  institutions,  the  magnificent  collections, 
of  the  metropolis  ?  What  else  is  it  you  enjoy  yonder, 
and  cannot  enjoy  with  me  ?  ” 

“  Liberty  !  ”  said  Aram  energetically. —  “  Liberty  !  the 
wild  sense  of  independence.  Coaid  I  exchange  the  lonely 
stars  and  the  free  air,  for  the  poor  lights  and  feverish 
atmosphere  of  worldly  life  ?  Could  I  surrender  my  mood, 
with  its  thousand  eccentricities  and  humors  —  its  cloud 
and  shadow  —  to  the  eyes  of  strangers,  or  veil  it  from 
their  gaze  by  the  irksomeness  of  an  eternal  hypocrisy  ? 
No,  my  lord  !  I  am  too  old  to  turn  disciple  to  the  world  ? 
You  promise  me  solitude  and  quiet.  What  charm  would 
they  have  for  me,  if  I  felt  they  were  held  from  the  gener¬ 
osity  of  another  ?  The  attraction  of  solitude  is  only  in 
its  independence.  You  offer  me  the  circle,  but  not  the 
magic  which  made  it  holy.  Books  !  They,  years  since, 
would  have  tempted  me  ;  but  those  whose  wisdom  I  have 
already  drained,  have  taught  me  now  almost  enough  : 
and  the  two  Books,  whose  interest  can  never  be  exhaust 
ed  —  Nature  and  my  own  Heart  —  will  suffice  for  the 
rest  of  my  life.  My  lord,  I  require  no  time  for  consider 
ation.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


197 


And  you  positively  refuse  me?” 

“Gratefully  refuse  you.” 

The  earl  walked  peevishly  away  for  one  moment ;  bui 
it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  lose  himself  for  more. 

“Mr  Aram,”  said  he  frankly,  and  holding  out  his 
hand ;  “  you  have  chosen  nobly,  if  not  wisely ;  and 
though  I  cannot  forgive  you  for  depriving  me  of  such  a 
companion,  I  thank  you  for  teaching  me  such  a  lesson. 
Henceforth,  I  will  believe,  that  philosophy  may  exist  in 
practice  ;  and  that  a  contempt  for  wealth  and  for  honors, 
is  not  the  mere  profession  of  discontent.  This  is  the 
first  time,  in  a  various  and  experienced  life,  that  I  have 
found  a  man  sincerely  deaf  to  the  temptations  of  the 
world, —  and  that  man  of  such  endowments!  If  ever 
you  see  cause  to  alter  a  theory  that  I  still  think  errone¬ 
ous,  though  lofty  —  remember  me  ;  and  at  all  times,  and 
on  all  occasions,”  he  added,  with  a  smile,  “  when  a  friend 
becomes  a  necessary  evil,  call  to  mind  our  star-lit  walk  on 
the  castle  terrace.” 

Aram  did  not  mention  to  Lester,  or  even  Madeline, 
the  above  conversation.  The  whole  of  the  next  day  he 
shut  himself  up  at  home  ;  and  when  he  again  appeared 
at  the  manor-house,  he  heard  with  evident  satisfaction 
lhat  the  earl  had  been  suddenly  summoned  on  state  affairs 
to  London. 

There  was  an  unaccountable  soreness  in  Aram’s  mind, 
which  made  him  feel  a  resentment  —  a  suspicion  against 


198 


EUGENE  ARAM 


all  who  sought  to  lure  hW  from  his  retreat.  “  Thank 
heaven  !  ”  thought  he,  when  he  heard  of  the  earl’s  depar¬ 
ture  ;  “  we  shall  not  meet  for  another  year  1  ”  He  was 
mistaken. — Another  year  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  WniCH  THE  STORY  RETURNS  TO  WALTER  AND  THE  COR¬ 
PORAL. - THE  RENCONTRE  WITH  A  STRANGER,  AND  HOW 

THE  STRANGER  PROVES  TO  BE  NOT  ALTOGETHER  A  STRAN¬ 
GER. 


“  Being  got  out  of  town  in  the  road  to  Penaflor,  master  of  my 
own  action,  and  forty  good  ducats ;  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
give  my  mule  her  head,  and  to  go  at  what  pace  she  pleased.” 

*  *  ****** 

“I  left  them  in  the  inn,  and  continued  my  journey ;  I  was  hard¬ 
ly  got  half-a-mile  farther,  when  I  met  a  cavalier  very  genteel,”  &c. 

Gil  Blas. 

It  was  broad  and  sunny  noon  on  the  second  day  of 
their  journey,  as  Walter  Lester,  and  the  valorous  atten¬ 
dant  with  wrbom  it  had  pleased  Fate  to  endow7  him,  rode 
slowly  into  a  small  towrn  in  which  the  corporal  in  his  own 
heart,  had  resolved  to  bait  his  roman-nosed  horse  and 
refresh  himself.  Two  comely  inns  had  the  younger  travel¬ 
ler  of  the  twrain  already  passed  writh  an  indifferent  air,  as 
if  neither  bait  nor  refreshment  made  any  part  of  the 
necessary  concerns  of  this  habitable  world.  And  in  pass- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


19ft 

ing  each  ol  the  said  hostelries,  the  roman-nosed  horse 
had  uttered  a  snort  of  indignant  surprise,  and  the  worthy 
corporal  had  responded  to  the  quadrupedal  remonstrance 
by  a  loud  hem.  It  seemed,  however,  that  Walter  heard 
neither  of  the  above  significant  admonitions ;  and  now 
the  town  was  nearly  past,  and  a  steep  hill  that  seemed 
winding  away  into  eternity,  already  presented  itself  to 
the  rueful  gaze  of  the  corporal. 

“The  boy’s  clean  mad,”  grunted  Bunting  to  himself — 
“  must  do  my  duty  to  him  —  give  him  a  hint.” 

Pursuant  to  this  notable  and  conscientious  determina- 
nation,  Bunting  jogged  his  horse  into  a  trot,  and  coming 
alongside  of  Walter,  put  his  hand  to  his  hat  and  said :  • 
“Weather  warm,  your  honor  —  horses  knocked  up  —  * 
next  town  far  as  hell !  —  halt  a  bit  here  —  augh  !  ” 

“  Ha  !  that  is  very  true,  Bunting  ;  I  had  quite  forgot¬ 
ten  the  length  of  our  journey.  But  see,  there  is  a  sign¬ 
post  yonder,  we  will  take  advantage  of  it.” 

“Augh!  and  your  honor’s  right  —  fit  for  the  forty- 
second  ;  ”  said  the  corporal  falling  back ;  and  in  a  few 
moments  he  and  his  charger  found  themselves,  to  their 
mutual  delight,  entering  the  yard  of  a  small,  but  comfort¬ 
able-looking  inn. 

The  host,  a  man  of  a  capacious  stomach  and  a  rosy 
cheek  —  in  short,  a  host  whom  your  heart  warms  to  see, 
stepped  forth  immediately,  held  the  stirrup  for  the  young 
squire,  (for  the  corporal’s  movements  were  too  stately  to 
be  rapid)  and  ushering  him  with  a  bow,  a  smile,  and  a 
flourish  of  his  napkin,  into  one  of  those  little  quaint 


200 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


rooms,  with  cupboards  bright  with  high  glasses  and  old 
china,  that  it  pleases  us  still  to  find  extant  in  the  old- 
fashioned  inns,  in  our  remoter  roads  and  less  Londonized 
districts. 

Mine  host  was  an  honest  fellow,  and  not  above  his 
profession  ;  he  stirred  the  fire,  dusted  the  table,  brought 
the  bill  of  fare,  and  a  newspaper  seven  days  old,  and  then 
bustled  away  to  order  the  dinner  and  chat  with  the  cor¬ 
poral.  That  accomplished  hero  had  already  thrown  the 
stables  into  commotion,  and  frightening  the  two  ostlers 
from  their  attendance  on  the  steeds  of  more  peaceable 
men,  had  set  them  both  at  leading  his  own  horse  and  his 
master’s  to  and  fro’  the  yard,  to  be  cooled  into  comfort 
and  appetite. 

He  was  now  busy  in  the  kitchen,  where  he  had  seized 
the  reins  of  government,  sent  the  scullion  to  see  if  the 
hens  had  laid  any  fresh  eggs,  and  drawn  upon  himself  the 
objurgations  of  a  very  thin  cook  with  a  squint. 

“Tell  you,  ma’am  you  are  wrong  —  quite  wrong  — 
have  seen  the  world  —  old  soldier  —  and  know  how  to 
fry  eggs  better  than  any  she  in  the  three  kingdoms  — 
hold  jaw  —  mind  your  own  business  —  where’s  the  frying- 
pan  ?  —  baugh  !  ” 

So  completely  did  the  corporal  feel  himself  in  his  ele¬ 
ment,  while  he  was  putting  everybody  else  out  of  the 
way ;  and  so  comfortable  did  he  find  his  newT  quarters, 
that  he  resolved  that  the  “bait”  should  be  at  all  events 
prolonged  until  his  good  cheer  had  been  deliberately  di« 
gested,  and  his  customary  pipe  duly  enjoyed. 


# 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


201 


Accordingly,  but  not  till  Walter  had  dined,  for  our 
man  of  the  world  knew  that  it  is  the  tendency  of  that 
meal  to  abate  our  activity,  while  it  increases  our  good 
humor,  the  corporal  presented  himself  to  his  master  with 
a  grave  countenance. 

“  Greatly  vexed,  your  honor  —  who’d  have  thought  it  ? 
• — but  those  large  animals  are  bad  on  long  march.” 

“  Why  what’s  the  matter  now,  Bunting  ?  ” 

“  Only,  sir,  that  the  brown  horse  is  so  done  up,  that  I 
think  it  would  be  as  much  as  life’s  worth  to  go  any  far¬ 
ther  for  several  hours  ” 

“Very  well,  and  if  I  propose  staying  here  till  the  eve¬ 
ning  ? —  we  have  ridden  far,  and  are  in  no  great  hurry.” 

“To  be  sure  not  —  sure  and  certain  not,”  cried  the 
corporal.  “  Ah,  master,  you  know  how  to  command,  I 
see.  Nothing  like  discretion  —  discretion,  sir,  is  a  jewel. 
Sir,  it  is  more  than  jewel  —  it’s  a  pair  of  stirrups  !  ” 

“A  what?  Bunting.” 

“  Pair  of  stirrups,  your  honor.  Stirrups  help  us  to 
get  on,  so  does  discretion  ;  to  get  off,  ditto  discretion. 
Men  without  stirrups  look  fine,  ride  bold,  tire  soon  :  men 
without  discretion  cut  dash,  but  knock  up  all  of  a  crack. 
Stirrups  —  but  what  sinnifies  ?  Could  say  much  more, 
your  honor,  but  don’t  love  chatter.” 

“Your  simile  is  ingenious  enough,  if  not  poetical,” 
said  Walter;  “but  it  does  not  hold  good  to  the  last. 
When  a  man  falls,  his  discretion  should  preserve  him  ; 
but  he  is  often  dragged  in  the  mud  by  his  stirrups.” 

“Beg  pardon  —  you’re  wrong,”  quoth  the  corporal, 


202 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


nothing  taken  by  surprise  ;  “  spoke  of  the  new-fangled 
stirrups  that  open,  crank,  when  we  fall,  and  let  us  out  of 
the  scrape.”  * 

Satisfied  with  this  repartee,  the  corporal  now  (like  an 
experienced  jester)  withdrew  to  leave  its  full  effect  on  the 
admiration  of  his  master.  A  little  before  sun-set  the  two 
travellers  renewed  their  journey. 

“  I  have  loaded  the  pistols,  sir,”  said  the  corporal, 
pointing  to  the  holsters  on  Walter’s  saddle.  “  It  is 
eighteen  miles  off  to  the  next  town  —  will  be  dark  long 
before  we  get  there.” 

“You  did  very  right,  Bunting,  though  I  suppose  there 
is  not  much  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  gentle¬ 
men  of  the  highway.” 

“  Why  the  landlord  do  say  the.  reverse,  your  honor, — 
been  many  robberies  lately  in  these  here  parts.” 

“Well,  we  are  fairly  mounted,  and  you  are  a  formida¬ 
ble-looking  fellow,  Bunting.” 

“  Oh  !  your  honor,”  quoth  the  corporal,  turning  his 
head  stiffly  away,  with  a  modest  simper,  ‘  You  makes  me 
blush  ;  though,  indeed,  bating  that  I  have  the  military 
air,  and  am  more  in  the  prime  of  life,  your  honor  is  well 
nigh  as  awkward  a  gentleman  as  myself  to  come  across.” 

“Much  obliged  for  the  compliment!”  said  Walter, 
lushing  his  horse  a  little  forward  —  the  corporal  took 

e  hint  and  fell  back. 

It  was  now  that  beautiful  hour  of  twilight  when  lovers 


*  Of  course  the  corporal  does  not  speak  of  the  patent  stirru  d 
that  would  be  an  anachronism 


EUGENE  ARAM 


203 


grow  especially  tender.  The  young  traveller  every  in¬ 
stant  threw  his  dark  eyes  upward,  and  thought  —  not  of 
Madeline,  but  her  sister.  The  corporal  himself  grew 
pensive,  and  in  a  few  moments  his  whole  soul  was  absorb¬ 
ed  in  contemplating  the  forlorn  state  of  the  abandoned 
Jacobina. 

In  this  melancholy  and  silent  mood,  they  proceeded 
onward  till  the  shades  began  to  deepen  ;  and  by  the 
light  of  the  first  stars  Walter  beheld  a  small,  spare  gen¬ 
tleman,  riding  before  him  on  an  ambling  nag,  with  cropped 
ears  and  mane.  The  rider,  as  he  now  came  up  to  him, 
seemed  to  have  passed  the  grand  climacteric,  but  looked 
hale  and  vigorous ;  and  there  was  a  certain  air  of  staid 
and  sober  aristocracy  about  him,  which  involuntarily  be¬ 
gat  your  respect. 

He  looked  hard  at  Walter  as  the  latter  approached, 
and  still  more  hard  at  the  corporal.  He  seemed  satis¬ 
fied  with  the  survey. 

“  Sir,”  said  he,  slightly  touching  his  hat  to  Walter,  and 
with  an  agreeable  though  rather  sharp  intonation  of  the 
voice,  “I  am  very  glad  to  see  a  gentleman  of  your 
appearance  travelling  my  road.  Might  I  request  the 
honor  of  being  allowed  to  join  you  so  far  as  you  go  ? 
To  say  the  truth,  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  encountering 
those  industrious  gentlemen  who  have  been  lately  some¬ 
what  notorious  in  these  parts ;  and  it  may  be  better  for 
all  of  us  to  ride  in  as  strong  a  party  as  possible.” 

*' Sir,”  replied  Walter,  eyeing  in  his  turn  the  speaker, 
and  in  his  turn  also  feeling  satisfied  with  the  scrutiny,  “  I 
I.  — 18 


204 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


am  going  to - ,  where  I  shall  pass  the  night  on  my  way 

to  town  ;  and  shall  be  very  happy  in  your  company.” 

The  corporal  uttered  a  loud  hem  ;  that  penetrating 
man  of  the  world  was  not  too  well  pleased  with  the 
advances  of  a  stranger. 

“  What  fools  them  boys  be  !  ”  tnought  he,  very  discon¬ 
tentedly;  “  howsomever,  the  man  does  seem  like  a  decent 
country  gentleman,  and  we  are  two  to  one  :  besides,  he’s 
jld  and  little,  and  —  augh,  baugh  —  I  dare  say,  we  are 
safe  enough,  for  all  he  can  do.” 

The  stranger  possessed  a  polished  and  wrell-bred  de¬ 
meanor  ;  he  talked  freely  and  copiously,  and  his  conver¬ 
sation  wras  that  of  a  shrewd  and  cultivated  man.  He 
informed  Walter  that,  not  only  the  roads  had  been  infest¬ 
ed  by  those  more  daring  riders  common  at  that  day,  and 
to  whose  merits  we  ourselves  have  endeavored  to  do 
justice  in  a  former  work  of  blessed  memory,  but  that 
several  houses  had  been  lately  attempted,  and  two  abso¬ 
lutely  plundered. 

“  For  myself,”  he  added,  “I  have  no  money  to  signify, 
about  my  person  :  my  watch  is  only  valuable  to  me  foi 
the  time  it  has  been  in  my  possession  ;  and  if  the  rogues 
robbed  one  civilly,  I  should  not  so  much  mind  encounter¬ 
ing  them  ;  but  they  are  a  desperate  set,  and  use  violence 
when  there  is  nothing  to  be  got  by  it.  Have  you  travel¬ 
led  far  to-day,  sir  ?  ” 

“  Some  six  or  seven-and-twenty  miles,”  replied  Walter. 
“  I  am  proceeding  to  London,  and  not  willing  to  distress 
my  horses  by  too  rapid  a  journey.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


205 


“Very  right,  very  good;  and  horses,  sir,  are  not  now 
what  they  used  to  be  when  I  was  a  young  man.  Ah, 
what  wagers  I  used  to  win  then  !  Horses  galloped,  sir, 
when  I  was  twenty ;  they  trotted  when  I  was  thirty-five  ; 
but  they  only  amble  now.  Sir,  if  it  does  not  tax  your 
patience  too  severely,  let  us  give  our  nags  some  hay  and 
water  at  the  half-way  house  yonder.” 

Walter  assented  ;  they  stopped  at  a  little  solitary  inn 
by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  the  host  came  out  with 
great  obsequiousness  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Walter’s 
companion. 

“  Ah,  Sir  Peter  !  ”  said  he,  “  and  how  be’st  your  honor 
—  fine  night,  Sir  Peter  —  hope  you’ll  get  home  safe,  Sir 
Peter.” 

“Safe  —  ay!  indeed,  Jock,  I  hope  so  too.  Has  all 
been  quiet  here  this  last  night  or  two  ?  ” 

“  Whish,  sir  !  ”  whispered  my  host  jerking  his  thumb 
back  towards  the  house  ;  “  there  be  two  ugly  customers 
within  I  does  not  know :  they  have  got  famous  good 
horses,  and  are  drinking  hard.  I  can’t  say  as  I  knows 
any  thing  agen  ’em,  but  I  think  your  honors  had  better 
be  jogging.” 

“Aha!  thank  ye,  Jock,  thank  ye.  Never  mind  the 
hay  now,”  said  Sir  Peter,  pulling  away  the  reluctant 
mouth  of  his  nag;  and  turning  to  Walter,  “Come,  sir, 
let  us  move  on.  Why,  zounds  !  where  is  that  servant 
of  yours  ?  ” 

Walter  now  perceived  with  great  vexation,  that  the 
corporal  had  disappeared  within  the  alehouse  ;  and  look- 


206 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ing  through  the  easement,  on  which  the  ruddy  light  of 
the  fire  played  cheerily,  he  saw  the  man  of  the  world 
lifting  a  little  measure  of  “the  pure  creature  ”  to  his 
lips ;  and  close  by  the  hearth,  at  a  small  round  table, 
covered  with  glasses,  pipes,  &c.  he  beheld  two  men  eye¬ 
ing  the  tall  corporal  very  wistfully,  and  of  no  prepossess¬ 
ing  appearance  themselves.  One,  indeed,  as  the  fire 
played  full  on  his  countenance,  was  a  person  of  singularly 
rugged  and  sinister  features ;  and  this  man,  he  now 
remarked,  was  addressing  himself  with  a  grim  smile  to 
the  corporal,  who,  setting  down  his  little  “noggin,” 
regarded  him  with  a  stare,  which  appeared  to  Walter  to 
denote  recognition.  This  survey  was  the  operation  of  a 
moment ;  for  Sir  Peter  took  it  upon  himself  to  despatch 
the  landlord  into  the  house,  to  order  forth  the  unseason¬ 
able  carouser ;  and  presently  the  corporal  stalked  out, 
and  having  solemnly  remounted,  the  whole  trio  set  onward 
in  a  brisk  trot.  As  soon  as  they  were  without  sight  of 
the  alehouse,  the  corporal  brought  the  aquiline  profile 
of  his  gaunt  steed  on  a  level  with  his  master’s  horse. 

“  Augh,  sir !  ”  said  he,  with  more  than  his  usual  energy 
of  utterance,  “  I  see’d  him  !  ” 

“  Him  !  whom  ?  ” 

“  Man  with  ugly  face  what  drank  at  Peter  Dealtry’s, 
and  knew  Master  Aram, —  knew  him  in  a  crack, —  sure 
he’s  a  tartar  1  ” 

“What!  does  your  servant  recognize  one  of  those 
suspicious  fellows  whom  Jock  warned  us  against?”  cried 
Sir  Peter,  pricking  up  his  ears. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


m 


“So  it  seems,  sir,”  said  Walter:  “he  saw  him  once 
before,  many  miles  hence  ;  but  I  fancy  he  knows  nothing 
really  to  his  prejudice.” 

“  Augh  !  ”  cried  the  corporal ;  “  he ’s  d — d  ugly  any 
how  I  ” 

“  That’s  a  tall  fellow  of  yours,”  said  Sir  Peter,  jerking 
up  his  chin  with  that  peculiar  motion  common  to  the 
brief  in  stature,  wrhen  they  are  covetous  of  elongation. 
“  He  looks  military  ;  —  has  he  been  in  the  army  ?  Ay, 
I  thought  so  ;  one  of  the  king  of  Prussia’s  grenadiers, 
I  suppose  ?  Faith,  I  hear  hoofs  behind  !  ” 

“  Hem  !  ”  cried  the  corporal,  again  coming  alongside 
of  his  master.  “Beg  pardon,  sir  —  served  in  the  42nd 
—  nothing  like  regular  line  —  stragglers  always  cut  off  — 
had  rather  not  straggle  just  now  —  enemy  behind  !  ” 

Walter  looked  back,  and  saw  two  men  approaching 
them  at  a  hand-gallop.  “We  are  a  match  at  least  for 
them,  sir,”  said  he,  to  his  new  acquaintance. 

“  I  am  devilish  glad  I  met  you,”  was  Sir  Peter’s  rather 
selfish  reply. 

“  ’Tis  he  !  ’tis  the  devil !  ”  grunted  the  corporal,  as  the 
two  men  now  gained  their  side  and  pulled  up ;  and  Wal¬ 
ter  recognized  the  faces  he  had  marked  in  the  alehouse. 

“Your  servant,  gentlemen,”  quoth  the  uglier  of  the 
two;  “you  ride  fast  —  ” 

“  And  ready  ;  — bother  —  baugh  !  ”  chimed  in  the  cor¬ 
poral,  plucking  a  gigantic  pistol  from  his  holster,  without 
any  farther  ceremony. 

“  Glad  to  hear  it,  sir  1  ”  said  the  hard-featured  stranger, 

nothing  dashed.  “  But  I  can  tell  you  a  secret  1  ” 

18*  0 


•208 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“What’s  that  —  augh  ?  ”  said  the  corporal,  cocking  his 
pistol. 

“  Whoever  hurts  you,  friend,  cheats  the  gallows !  v 
replied  the  stranger,  laughing,  and  spurring  on  his  horse, 
to  be  out  of  reach  of  any  practical  answer  with  which 
the  corporal  might  favor  him.  But  Bunting  was  a  pru¬ 
dent  man,  and  not  apt  to  be  choleric. 

“  Bother !  ”  said  he,  and  dropped  his  pistol,  as  the 
other  stranger  followed  his  ill-favored  comrade. 

“You  see  we  are  too  strong  for  them!”  cried  Sir 
Peter,  gaily;  “  evidently  highwaymen  !  How  very  fortu¬ 
nate  that  I  should  have  fallen  in  with  you  !  ” 

A  shower  of  rain  now  began  to  fall.  Sir  Peter  looked 
serious  —  he  halted  abruptly — unbuckled  his  cloak,  which 
had  been  strapped  before  his  saddle  —  wrapped  himself 
up  in  it  —  buried  his  face  in  the  collar — -muffled  his  chin 
with  a  red  handkerchief,  which  he  took  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  then  turning  to  Walter,  he  said  to  him,  “What!  no 
cloak,  sir  ?  no  wrapper  even  ?  Upon  my  soul  I  am  very 
sorry  I  have  not  another  handkerchief  to  lend  you  !  ” 

“  Man  of  the  world  —  baugh  !  ”  grunted  the  corporal 
and  his  heart  quite  warmed  to  the  stranger  he  had  at 
first  taken  for  a  robber. 

“And  now,  sir,”  said  Sir  Peter,  patting  his  nag  and 
pulling  up  his  cloak-collar  still  higher,  “let  us  go  gently; 
there  is  no  occasion  for  hurry.  Why  distress  our  horses  ? — ” 
“Really,  sir,”  said  Walter,  smiling,  “though  I  have  a 
great  regard  for  my  horse,  I  have  some  for  myself ;  and 
I  should  rather  like  to  be  out  of  this  rain  as  soon  as 
possible.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


209 


“  Oh,  ah  I  you  have  no  cloak.  I  forgot  that ;  to  be 
sure  —  to  be  sure,  let  us  trot  on,  —  gently  though  — 
gently.  Well,  sir,  as  I  was  saying,  horses  are  not  so 
swift  as  they  were.  The  breed  is  bought  up  by  the 
French  !  I  remember  once,  Johnny  Courtland  and  I, 
after  dining  at  my  house,  till  the  champagne  had  played 
he  dancing-master  to  our  brains,  mounted  our  horses, 
nd  rode  twenty  miles  for  a  cool  thousand  the  winner.  I 
ost  it,  sir,  by  a  hair’s  breadth  ;  but  I  lost  it  on  purpose  ; 
it  would  have  half  ruined  Johnny  Courtland  to  have 
paid  me,  and  he  had  that  delicacy,  sir, —  he  had  that 
delicacy,  that  he  would  not  have  suffered  me  to  refuse 
taking  his  money, —  so  what  could  I  do,  but  lose  on  pur¬ 
pose  ?  You  see  I  had  no  alternative  I  ” 

“  Pray  sir,”  said  Walter,  charmed  and  astonished  at 
so  rare  an  instance  of  the  generosity  of  human  friend¬ 
ships —  “Pray,  sir,  did  I  not  hear  you  called  Sir  Peter, 
by  the  landlord  of  the  little  inn  ?  can  it  be,  since  you 
speak  so  familiarly  of  Mr.  Courtland,  that  I  have  the 
honor  to  address  Sir  Peter  Hales  ?  ” 

“Indeed  that  is  my  name,”  replied  the  gentleman,  with 
some  surprise  in  his  voice.  “But  I  have  never  had  the 
h  >nor  of  seeing  you  before.” 

“  Perhaps  my  name  is  not  unfamiliar  to  you,”  said  Wal¬ 
ter.  “  And  among  my  papers  I  have  a  letter  addressed 
to  you  from  my  uncle  Rowland  Lester.” 

“  God  bless  me  !  ”  cried  Sir  Peter,  “  what,  Rowy  !  — 
well,  indeed  I  am  overjoyed  to  hear  of  him.  So  you  are 
his  nephew  ?  Pray  tell  me  all  about  him,  a  wild,  gay 


210 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


/ 


sollicking  fellow  still,  eh?  Always  fencing,  sa  —  sal  or 
playing  at  billiards,  or  hot  in  a  steeple  chase  ;  there  was 
not  a  jollier,  better  humored  fellow  in  the  world  than 
Rowy  Lester.” 

“You  forget,  Sir  Peter,”  said  Walter,  laughing  at  a 
description  so  unlike  his  sober  and  steady  uucle,  “  that 
some  years  have  passed  since  the  time  you  speak  of.” 

“Ah,  and  so  there  have,”  replied  Sir  Peter:  “and 
what  do^s  your  uncle  say  of  me  ?  ” 

“  That,  when  he  knew  you,  you  were  generosity,  frank¬ 
ness,  hospitality  itself.” 

“  Humph,  humph  !  ”  said  Sir  Peter,  looking  extremely 
disconcerted,  a  confusion  which  Walter  imputed  solely  1 
modesty.  “  7  wa»  a  hairbrained  foolish  fellow  then,  quit: 
a  boy,  quite  a.  buy  ;  but  bless  me,  it  rains  sharply,  ana 
you  have  no  cloax.  But  we  are  close  on  the  town  now. 
An  excellent  kin  is  the  “  Duke  of  Cumberland’s  Head,” 
you  will  have  charming  accommodation  there.” 

“  What,  Si  Peter,  you  know  this  part  of  the  country 
well !  ” 

“Pretty  weL,  pretty  well ;  indeed  I  live  near,  that  is  to 
say  not  very  far  from,  the  town.  This  turn  if  you  please. 
We  separate  here.  I  have  brought  you  a  little  out  of 
your  way  —  not  above  a  mile  or  two  —  for  fear  the  rob¬ 
bers  should  attack  me  if  I  was  left  alone.  I  had  quite 
forgot  you  had  no  cloak.  That’s  your  road  —  this  mine. 
Aha  !  so  Rowy  Lester  is  still  alive  and  hearty,  the  same 
excellent,  wild  fellow,  no  doubt.  Give  my  kindest  re¬ 
membrance  to  him  when  you  write.  Adieu,  sir.” 


EUGE  NE  ARAM. 


211 


This  latter  speech  having  been  delivered  during  halt 
the  corporal  had  heard  it:  he  grinned  delightfully  h<* 
touched  his  hat  to  Sir  Peter,  who  now  trotted  off 
muttered  to  his  young  master :  — 

“  Most  sensible  man,  that,  sir  !  ” 


C  HAPTER  YI. 

SIR  PETER  DISPLAYED. —  ONE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  SUFFERS 

\ 

FROM  ANOTHER. - THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  BRIDLE  BEGETS 

THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  SADDLE  ;  THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE 
SADDLE  BEGETS  THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  WHIP  ;  THE  INCI¬ 
DENT  OF  THE  WHIP  BEGETS  WHAT  THE  READER  MUST 
READ  TO  SEE. 


“Nihil  est  aliud  magnum  quam  multa  minuta.” 

Vet.  Auct. 

“  And  so,”  said  Walter,  the  next  morning,  to  the  hea. 
waiter,  who  was  busied  about  their  preparations  for 
breakfast ;  “  and  so,  Sir  Peter  Hales,  you  say,  lives  with¬ 
in  a  mile  of  the  town  ?  ” 

“ Scarcely  a  mile,  sir, —  black  or  green?  you  passed 
the  turn  to  his  house  last  night ;  —  sir,  the  eggs  are  quite 
fresh  this  morning.  This  inn  belongs  to  Sir  Peter.” 

“  Oh  !  —  Does  Sir  Peter  see  much  company  ?  ” 

The  waiter  smiled. 

“  Sir  Peter  gives  very  handsome  dinners,  sir,  twice  a 


212 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


year  !  A  most  clever  gentleman,  Sir  Peter  !  They  say 
he  is  the  best  manager  of  property  in  the  whole  county. 
Do  you  like  Yorkshire  cake  ?  —  toast  ?  yes,  sir  ! ” 

“  So,  so,”  said  Walter  to  himself,  “a  pretty  true  des¬ 
cription  my  uncle  ga^e  me  of  this  gentleman.  ‘  Ask  mt 
too  often  to  dinner,  indeed  !  ’ — ‘  offer  me  money  if  I  want 
it ! 7  —  ‘spend  a  month  at  his  house!’  —  ‘most  hospita¬ 
ble  fellow  in  the  world’  —  My  uncle  must  have  been 
dreaming.” 

Walter  had  yet  to  learn,  that  the  men  most  prodigal 
when  they  have  nothing  but  expectations,  are  often  most 
thrifty  when  they  know  the  charms  of  absolute  possession. 
Besides,  Sir  Peter  had  married  a  Scotch  lady,  and  was 
blessed  with  eleven  children  !  But  was  Sir  Peter  Hales 
much  altered  ?  Sir  Peter  Hales  was  exactly  the  same 
man  in  reality  that  he  always  had  been.  Once  he  was 
selfish  in  extravagance  ;  he  was  now  selfish  in  thrift. 
He  had  always  pleased  himself,  and  damned  other  people ; 
that  was  exactly  what  he  valued  himself  on  doing  now. 
But  the  most  absurd  thing  about  Sir  Peter  was,  that 
while  he  was  for  ever  extracting  use  from  every  one  else, 
he  was  mightily  afraid  of  being  himself  put  to  use.  He 
was  in  parliament,  and  noted  for  never  giving  a  frank  out 
of  his  own  family.  Yet  withal,  Sir  Peter  Hales  was 
still  an  agreeable  fellow ;  nay,  he  was  more  liked  and 
much  more  esteemed  than  ever.  There  is  something 
conciliatory  in  a  saving  disposition;  but  people  put 
themselves  in  a  great  passion  when  a  man  is  too  liberal 
with  his  own  It  is  an  insult  on  their  own  prudence 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


213 


“  What  right  has  he  to  be  so  extravagant  ?  What  an 
example  to  our  servants !  ”  But  your  close  neighbor 
does  not  humble  you.  You  love  your  close  neighbor: 
you  respect  your  close  neighbor •,  you  have  your  harmless 
jest  against  him  —  but  he  is  a  most  respectable  man. 

“  A  letter,  sir,  and  a  parcel,  from  Sir  Peter  Hales, ” 
said  the  waiter,  entering. 

The  parcel  was  a  bulky,  angular,  awkward  packet  of 
brown  paper,  sealed  once  and  tied  with  the  smallest 
possible  quantity  of  string ;  it  was  addressed  to  Mr. 

James  Holwell,  Saddler, - Street,****.  The  letter 

was  addressed  to - Lester,  Esq.,  and  ran  thus,  written 

in  a  very  neat,  stiff,  Italian  character. 

“Dr  Sr, 

“  I  trust  you  had  no  difficulty  in  find5  ye  Duke  of  Cum¬ 
berland’s  Head,  it  is  an  excellent  In. 

“  I  greatly  reg1  y‘  you  are  unavoidy  oblig’d  to  go  on  tc 
Lond" ;  for,  otherwise  I  shd  have  had  the  sincerest  pleas* 
in  seeing  you  here  at  dinr,  &  introducing  you  to  L  Hales. 
Anothr  time  I  trust  we  may  be  more  fortunate. 

“As  you  pass  thro’  ye  litt*  town  of . .  exactly  21 

miles  from  hence,  on  the  road  to  Lond",  will  you  do  me 
the  favr  to  allow  your  serv*  to  put  the  little  parcel  I  send 
into  his  pock*,  &  drop  it  as  directd.  It  is  a  bridle  I  am 
forc’d  to  return.  Country  work0  are  such  bungrs. 

'*  I  shd  most  certain  have  had  ye  honr  to  wait  on  you 
persony,  but  the  rain  has  given  me  a  m°  seve  cold  ;  —  hope 
you  have  escap’d,  tho’  by  ye  by,  you  had  no  cloke,  nor 
wrappr  I 


214 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  My  kindest  regards  to  your  m°  excellent  unce.  I  am 
quite  sure  he’s  the  same  fine  merry  fellw  he  always  was, — • 
tell  him  so  ! 

“Dr  Sr,  Yours  faithy, 

“  Peter  Grtndlescrew  Hales. 

“  P.  S.  You  know  perhs  y‘  poor  Jno°  Courtd,  your 

uncle’s  m°  intim6  friend,  lives  in . ,  the  town  in 

which  your  serv*  will  drop  ye  bride.  He  is  much  alter’d, 
—  poor  Jn°  1  ” 

“  Altered  !  alteration  then  seems  the  fashion  with  my 
uncle’s  friends  !  ”  thought  Walter  as  he  rang  for  the  cor¬ 
poral,  and  consigned  to  his  charge  the  unsightly  parcel. 

“  It  is  to  be  carried  twenty-one  miles  at  the  request  of 
the  gentleman  we  met  last  night, —  a  most  sensible  man, 
Bunting.” 

“  Augh  —  waugh, —  your  honor  !  ”  grunted  the  corpor¬ 
al,  thrusting  the  bridle  very  discontentedly  into  his  pock¬ 
et,  where  it  annoyed  him  the  whole  journey,  by  incessantly 
getting  between  his  seat  of  leather  and  his  seat  of  honor. 
It  is  a  comfort  to  the  inexperienced,  when  one  man  of  the 
world  smarts  from  the  sagacity  of  another ;  we  resign 
ourselves  more  willingly  to  our  fate.  Our  travellers 
resumed  their  journey,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  from  the 
cause  we  have  before  assigned,  the  corporal  became 
thoroughly  out  of  humor. 

“Pray,  Bunting,”  said  Walter,  calling  his  attendant  to 
his  side,  “  do  you  feel  sure  that  the  man  we  met  yesterday 
at  the  alehouse,  is  the  same  you  saw  at  Grassdale  some 
months  ago  ?  ” 


EUGE  NE  ARAM. 


215 


“  Damn  it !  ”  cried  the  corporal  quickly,  and  clapping 
his  hand  behind. 

“  How,  sir  !  ” 

“Beg  pardon,  your  honor  —  slip  tongue,  but  this  con* 
founded  parcel !  augh  —  bother  !  ” 

“  Why  don’t  you  carry  it  in  your  hand  ?  ” 

“  ’Tis  so  ungainsome,  and  be  d - d  to  it ;  and  how 

can  I  hold  parcel  and  pull  in  this  beast,  which  requires 
two  hands  ;  his  mouth’s  as  hard  as  a  brickbat, —  augh  !  ” 

“  You  have  not  answered  my  question  yet  ?  ” 

“  Beg  pardon,  your  honor.  Yes,  certain  sure  the  man’s 
the  same  ;  phiz  not  to  be  mistaken.” 

“It  is  strange,”  said  Walter  musing,  “that  Aram 
should  know  a  man,  who,  if  not  a  highwayman  as  we  sus¬ 
pected,  is  at  least  of  rugged  manner  and  disreputable 
appearance  ;  it  is  strange  too,  that  Aram  always  avoided 
recurring  to  the  acquaintance,  though  he  confessed  it.” 
With  this  he  broke  into  a  trot,  and  the  corporal  into  an 
oath. 

They  arrived  by  noon,  at  the  little  town  specified  by 
Sir  Peter,  and  in  their  way  to  the  inn  (for  Walter  re¬ 
solved  to  rest  there),  passed  by  the  saddler’s  house.  It 
so  chanced  that  Master  Holwell  was  an  adept  in  his 
craft,  and  that  a  newly  invented  hunting-saddle  at  the 
window  caught  Walter’s  notice.  The  artful  saddler  per¬ 
suaded  the  young  traveller  to  dismount  and  look  at  “the 
most  convenientest  and  handsomest  saddle  that  ever  was 
seed  ;  ”  and  the  corporal  having  lost  no  time  in  getting 
rid  of  Ms  encumbrance,  Walter  dismissed  him  to  the  inn 
I.  — 19 


A  R  A  M. 


216  EUGENE 

with  the  horses,  and  after  purchasing  the  saddle,  in  ex* 
change  for  his  own,  he  sauntered  into  the  shop  to  look  at 
a  new  snaffle.  A  gentleman’s  servant  was  in  the  shop  at 
the  time,  bargaining  for  a  riding-whip  ;  and  the  shop-boy, 
among  others,  showed  him  a  large  old-fashioned  one, 
with  a  tarnished  silver  handle.  Grooms  have  no  taste 
for  antiquity,  and  in  spite  of  the  silver  handle,  the  servant 
pushed  it  aside  with  some  contempt.  Some  jest  he  utter¬ 
ed  at  the  time,  chanced  to  attract  Walter’s  notice  to  the 
whip  ;  he  took  it  up  carelessly,  and  perceived  with  some 
surprise  that  it  bore  his  own  crest,  a  bittern,  on  the  han¬ 
dle.  He  examined  it  now  with  attention,  and  underneath 
the  crest  were  the  letters  G.  L.,  his  father’s  initials. 

“How  long  have  you  had  this  whip  ?  ”  said  he  to  the 
saddler,  concealing  the  emotion,  which  this  token  of  his 
lost  parent  naturally  excited. 

“Oh,  a  nation  long  time,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Holwell  ; 
“  it  is  a  queer  old  thing,  but  really  is  not  amiss,  if  the 
silver  was  scrubbed  up  a  bit,  and  a  new  lash  put  on ;  you 
may  have  it  a  bargain,  sir,  if  so  be  you  have  taken  a 
fancy  to  it.” 

“  Can  you  at  all  recollect  how  you  came  by  it  ?  ”  said 
Walter,  earnestly;  “the  fact  is  that  I  see  by  the  crest 
and  initials,  that  it  belonged  to  a  person  whom  I  have 
some  interest  in  discovering.” 

“  Why  let  me  see,”  said  the  saddler,  scratching  the  tip 
of  his  right  ear,  “  ’tis  so  long  ago  sin  I  had  it,  I  quite 
forgets  how  I  came  by  it.” 

“  Oh,  is  it  that  whip,  John  ?  ”  said  the  wife,  who  had 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


217 


been  attracted  from  the  back  parlor  by  the  sight  of  the 
handsome  young  stranger.  “  Don’t  you  remember,  it's 
a  many  year  ago,  a  gentleman  who  passed  a  day  with 
Squire  Courtland,  when  he  first  come  to  settle  here,  call¬ 
ed  and  left  the  whip  to  have  a  new  thong  put  to  it.  But 
I  fancies  he  forgot  it,  sir,  (turning  to  Walter,)  for  he 
never  called  for  it  again  ;  and  the  squire’s  people  said  as 
how  he  was  gone  into  Yorkshire;  so  there  the  whip’s 
been  ever  sin.  I  remembers  it,  sir,  ’cause  I  kept  it  in  the 
little  parlor  nearly  a  year,  to  be  in  the  way  like.” 

“  Ah  1  I  thinks  I  do  remember  it  now,”  said  Master 
Holwell.  “  I  should  think  it’s  a  matter  of  twelve  yearn 
ego.  I  suppose  I  may  sell  it  without  fear  of  the  gentle¬ 
man’s  claiming  it  again.” 

“  Not  more  than  twelve  years  !  ”  said  Walter  anxiously, 
for  it  was  some  seventeen  years  since  his  father  had  been 
last  heard  of  by  his  family. 

“Why  it  may  be  thirteen,  sir,  or  so,  more  or  less,  I 
can’t  say  exactly.” 

“  More  likely  fourteen  !  ”  said  the  dame,  “  it  can’t  be 
much  more,  sir,  we  have  only  been  a  married  fifteen  year 
come  next  Christmas  !  But  my  old  man  here,  is  ten 
years  older  nor  I.” 

“  And  the  gentleman,  you  say,  was  at  Mr.  Courtland’s.” 

“  Yes,  sir,  that  I’m  sure  of,”  replied  the  intelligent 
Mrs.  Holwell ;  “  they  said  he  had  come  lately  from  the 
Ingee.” 

Walter  now  despairing  of  hearing  more,  purchased  the 


218 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


whip ;  and  blessing  the  worldly  wisdom  of  Sir  Peter 
Hales,  that  had  thus  thrown  him  on  a  clue,  which,  how¬ 
ever  faint  and  distant,  he  resolved  to  follow  up,  he  inquir¬ 
ed  the  way  to  Squire  Courtland’s,  and  proceeded  thither 
at  once. 


CHAPTER  YII. 

WALTER  VISITS  ANOTHER  OF  HIS  UNCLE’S  FRIENDS. —  MR. 
COURTLAND’S  STRANGE  COMPLAINT.  —  WALTER  LEARNS 

NEWS  OF  HIS  FATHER,  WHICH  SURPRISES  HIM. - THE 

CHANGE  IN  HIS  DESTINATION. 


“  God’s  my  life,  did  you  ever  hear  the  like,  what  a  strange  man 
is  this  ! 

“  What  you  have  possessed  me  withall,  I’ll  discharge  it  amply.” 
—  Ben  Jonson’s  Every  Man  in  his  Ilumor. 

Mr.  Courtland’s  house  was  surrounaea  by  a  high 
wall,  and  stood  at  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  A  little 
wooden  door  buried  deep  within  the  wall,  seemed  the 
only  entrance.  At  this  Walter  paused,  and  after  twice 
applying  to  the  bell,  a  footman  of  a  peculiarly  grave  and 
sanctimonious  appearance,  opened  the  door. 

In  reply  to  Walter’s  inquiries,  he  informed  him  that 
Mr.  Courtland  was  very  unwell,  and  never  saw  “com¬ 
pany.” —  Walter,  however,  producing  from  his  pocket- 
book  the  introductory  letter  given  him  by  his  uncle, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


219 


slipped  it  into  the  servant’s  hand,  accompanied  by  half  a 
crown,  and  begged  to  be  announced  as  a  gentleman  on 
very  particular  business.. 

“Well,  sir,  you  can  step  in,”  said  the  servant,  giving 
way;  “but  my  master  is  very  poorly,  very  poorly  in¬ 
deed.” 

“  Indeed  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it :  has  he  been  long 
so  ?  ” 

« 

“  Going  on  for  ten - years,  sir!”  replied  the  ser¬ 

vant,  with  great  gravity ;  and  opening  the  door  of  the 
house  which  stood  within  a  few  paces  of  the  wall,  on  a 
singularly  flat  and  bare  grass-plot,  he  showed  him  into  a 
room,  and  left  him  alone. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  Walter  in  this  apartment, 
was  its  remarkable  lightness .  Though  not  large,  it  had 
no  less  than  seven  windows.  Two  sides  of  the  wall, 
seemed  indeed  all  window!  Nor  were  these  admittants 
of  the  celestial  beam  shaded  by  any  blind  or  curtain : 

“The  gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  day” 

made  itself  thoroughly  at  home  in  this  airy  chamber. 
Nevertheless,  though  so  light,  it  seemed  to  Walter  any 
thing  but  cheerful.  The  sun  had  blistered  and  discolored 
the  painting  of  the  wainscot,  originally  of  a  pale  sea- 
green  ;  there  was  little  furniture  in  the  apartment ;  one 
table  in  the  centre,  some  half  a  dozen  chairs,  and  a  very 
small  Turkey-carpet,  which  did  not  cover  one  tenth  part 
of  the  clean,  cold,  smooth,  oak  boards,  constituted  all  the 
goods  and  chattels  visible  in  the  room.  But  what  par* 
19  * 


220 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ticularly  added  effect  to  the  bareness  of  all  within,  was 
the  singular  and  laborious  bareness  of  all  without.  From 
each  of  these  seven  windows,  nothing  but  a  forlorn 
green  flat  of  some  extent  was  to  be  seen ;  there  was  not 
a  tree,  or  a  shrub,  or  a  flower  in  the  whole  expanse, 
although  by  several  stumps  of  trees  near  the  house, 
Walter  perceived  that  the  place  had  not  always  been  so 
destitute  of  vegetable  life. 

While  he  was  yet  looking  upon  this  singular  baldness 
of  scene,  the  servant  re-entered  with  his  master’s  com¬ 
pliments,  and  a  message  that  he  should  be  happy  to  see 
any  relation  of  Mr.  Lester. 

Walter  accordingly  followed  the  footman  into  an  apart¬ 
ment  possessing  exactly  the  same  peculiarities  as  the  for¬ 
mer  one  ;  viz.  a  most  disproportionate  plurality  of  win¬ 
dows,  a  commodious  scantiness  of  furniture,  and  a  prospect 
without,  that  seemed  as  if  the  house  had  been  built  on  the 
middle  of  Salisbury  plain. 

Mr.  Courtland,  himself  a  stout  man,  and  still  preserving 
the  rosy  hues  and  comely  features,  though  certainly  not 
the  same  hilarious  expression,  which  Lester  had  attri¬ 
buted  to  him,  sat  in  a  large  chair,  close  by  the  centre 
window,  which  was  open.  He  rose  and  shook  Walter  by 
the  hand  with  great  cordiality. 

“  Sir,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  !  How  is  your  worthy 
uncle?  I  only  wish  he  were  with  you  —  you  dine  with 
me  of  course.  Thomas,  tell  the  cook  to  add  a  tongue 
and  chicken  to  the  roast  beef — no, —  young  gentleman, 
I  will  have  no  excuse ;  sit  down,  sit  down  ;  pray  come 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


221 


near  the  window ;  do  you  not  find  it  dreadfully  close  ? 
not  a  breath  of  air  ?  This  house  is  so  choked  up  ;  don’t 
you  find  it  so,  eh  ?  Ah,  I  see,  you  can  scarcely  gasp.” 

“  My  dear  sir,  you  are  mistaken ;  I  am  rather  cold  on 
the  contrary:  nor  did  I  ever  in  my  life  see  a  more  airy 
house  than  yours  ” 

“  I  try  to  make  it  so,  sir,  but  I  can’t  succeed  ;  if  you 
had  seen  what  it  w'as,  when  I  first  bought  it !  a  garden 
here,  sir ;  a  copse  there ;  a  wilderness,  God  wot !  at  the 
back:  and  a  row  of  chesnut  trees  in  the  front!  You 
may  conceive  the  consequence,  sir ;  I  had  not  been  long 
here,  not  two  years,  before  my  health  was  gone,  sir,  gone 

—  the  d - d  vegetable  life  sucked  it  out  of  me.  The 

trees  kept  away  all  the  air — I  was  nearly  suffocated, 
without  at  first  guessing  the  cause.  But  at  length, 
though  not  till  I  had  been  withering  away  for  five  years, 
I  discovered  the  origin  of  my  malady.  I  went  to  work, 
sir  ;  plucked  up  the  cursed  garden,  I  cut  down  the  infer¬ 
nal  chcsnuts,  I  made  a  bowling  green  of  the  diabolical 
wilderness,  but  I  fear  it  is  too  late.  I  am  dying  by 
inches, —  have  been  dying  ever  since.  The  malaria  has 
effectually  tainted  my  constitution.” 

Here  Mr.  Courtland  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  shook 
his  head  with  a  most  gloomy  expression  of  countenance 

“Indeed,  sir,”  said  Walter,  “I  should  not,  to  look  at 
you,  imagine  that  you  suffered  under  any  complaint. 
You  seem  still  the  same  picture  of  health,  that  my  uncle 
describes  you  to  have  been  when  you  knew  him  so  many 
years  ago.” 


222 


EUGENE  ARAM 


‘Yes,  sir,  yes  ;  the  confounded  malaria  fixed  the  color 
to  my  cheeks;  the  blood  is  stagnant,  sir.  Would  to 
God  I  could  see  myself  a  shade  paler  !  —  the  blood  does 
not  flow  ;  I  am  like  a  pool  in  a  citizen’s  garden,  with  a 
willow  at  each  corner;  — but  a  truce  to  my  complaints. 
You  see,  sir,  I  am  no  hypochondriac,  as  my  fool  of  a 
doctor  wants  to  persuade  me  :  a  hypochondriac  shudders 
at  every  breath  of  air,  trembles  when  the  door  is  open, 
and  looks  upon  a  window  as  the  entrance  of  death. 
But,  I,  sir,  never  can  have  enough  air ;  thorough  draught 
or  east  wind,  it  is  all  the  same  to  me,  so  that  I  do  but 
breathe.  Is  that  like  hypochondria  ?  —  pshaw  !  But 
tell  me,  young  gentleman,  about  your  uncle  ;  is  he  quite 
well,  —  stout,  —  hearty,  —  does  he  breathe  easily, —  no 
oppression  ?  ” 

“  Sir,  he  enjoys  exceedingly  good  health  :  he  did  please 
himself  with  the  hope  that  I  should  give  him  good 
tidings  of  yourself,  and  another  of  his  old  friends  whom 
I  accidentally  saw  yesterday, —  Sir  Peter  Hales.” 

“  Hales,  Peter  Hales  !  —  ah  !  a  clever  little  fellow 
that :  how  delighted  Lester’s  good  heart  will  be  to  hear 
that  little  Peter  is  so  improved  :  —  no  longer  a  dissolute, 
harum-scarum  fellow,  throwing  away  his  money,  and  al¬ 
ways  in  debt.  No,  no  ;  a  respectable  steady  character, 
an  excellent  manager,  an  active  member  of  Parliament, 
domestic  in  private  life: —  Oh  I  a  very  worthy  man,  sir,  a 
very  worthy  man  !  ” 

“  He  seems  altered  indeed,  sir,”  said  Walter,  who  was 
young  enough  in  the  world  to  be  surprised  at  this  eulogy; 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


223 


“but  he  is  still  agreeable  and  fond  of  anecdote.  He  told 
me  of  his  race  with  you  for  a  thousand  guineas.” 

“  Ah,  don’t  talk  of  those  days,”  said  Mr.  Courtland, 
shaking  his  head  pensively,  “it  makes  me  melancholy. 
Yes,  Peter  ought  to  recollect  that,  for  he  has  never  paid 
me  to  this  day  ;  affected  to  treat  it  as  a  jest,  and  swore  he 
could  have  beat  me  if  he  would.  But  indeed  it  was  my 
fault,  sir ;  Peter  had  not  then  a  thousand  farthings  in  the 
world,  and  when  he  grew  rich,  he  became  a  steady  cha¬ 
racter,  and  I  did  not  like  to  remind  him  of  our  former 
follies.  Aha  1  can  I  offer  you  a  pinch  of  snuff?  —  You 
look  feverish,  sir ;  surely  this  room  must  affect  you, 
though  you  are  too  polite  to  say  so.  Pray  open  that 
door,  and  then  this  window,  and  put  your  chair  right 
between  the  two.  You  have  no  notion  how  refreshing 
the  draught  is.” 

Walter  politely  declined  the  proffered  ague,  and  think¬ 
ing  he  had  now  made  sufficient  progress  in  the  acquaint¬ 
ance  of  this  singular  non-hypochondriac  to  introduce  the 
subject  he  had  most  at  heart,  hastened  to  speak  of  his 
father. 

“  I  have  chanced,  sir,”  said  he,  “  very  unexpectedly 
upon  something  that  once  belonged  to  my  poor  father;  ” 
here  he  showed  the  whip.  “  I  find  from  the  saddler  of 
whom  I  bought  it,  that  the  owner  was  at  your  house 
some  twelve  or  fourteen  years  ago.  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  are  aware  that  our  family  have  heard  no¬ 
thing  respecting  my  father’s  fate  for  a  considerably  longer 
time  than  that  which  has  elapsed  since  you  appear  to 

r 


224 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


have  seen  him,  if  at  least  I  may  hope  that  he  was  your 
guest,  and  the  owner  of  this  whip  ;  and  any  news  you 
can  give  me  of  him,  any  clue  by  which  he  can  possibly 
be  traced,  would  be  to  us  all  —  to  me  m  particular  —  an 
inestimable  obligation.” 

“Your  father!”  said  Mr.  Courtland.  “Oh, —  ay 
your  uncle’s  brother.  What  was  his  Christian  name  ? 
Henry?” 

“  Geoffrey.” 

“  Ay,  exactly  ;  Geoffrey  !  What !  not  been  heard  of  ? 
—  his  family  not  know  where  he  is  ?  A  sad  thing,  sir  ; 
but  he  was  always  a  wild  fellow  ;  now  here,  now  there, 
like  a  flash  of  lightning.  But  it  is  true,  it  is  true,  he 
did  stay  a  day  here,  several  years  ago,  when  I  first 
bought  the  place.  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it ;  —  but 
you  seem  agitated, —  do  come  nearer  the  window: — ■ 
there,  that’s  right.  Well,  sir,  it  is,  as  I  said,  a  great 
many  years  ago, —  perhaps  fourteen, —  and  I  was  speak¬ 
ing  to  the  landlord  of  the  Greyhound  about  some  hay  he 
wished  to  sell,  when  a  gentleman  rode  into  the  yard  full 
tear,  as  your  father  always  did  ride,  and  in  getting  out 
of  his  way  I  recognized  Geoffrey  Lester.  I  did  not 
know  him  well  —  far  from  it;  but  I  had  seen  him  once 
or  twice  with  your  uncle,  and  though  he  was  a  strange 
pickle,  he  sang  a  good  song,  and  was  deuced  amusing. 
Well,  sir,  I  accosted  him,  and,  for  the  sake  of  your  uncle, 
I  asked  him  to  dine  with  me,  and  take  a  bed  at  my  new 
house.  Ah  !  I  little  thought  what  a  dear  bargain  it  was 
to  be.  He  accepted  my  invitation,  for  I  fancy — no  offence. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


225 


sir, —  there  were  few  invitations  that  Mr.  Geoffrey  Lester 
ever  refused  to  accept.  We  dined  tete-a-tete, —  I  am  an 
old  bachelor,  sir, —  and  very  entertaining  he  was,  though 
his  sentiments  seemed  to  me  broader  than  ever.  He  was 
capital,  however,  about  the  tricks  he  had  played  his  ere- 
d'tors,  —  such  manoeuvres, —  such  escapes  !  After  dinner 
he  asked  me  if  I  ever  corresponded  with  his  brother. 

I  told  him  no ;  that  we  were  very  good  friends,  but 
never  heard  from  each  other:  and  he  then  said,  ‘Well,  I 
shall  surprise  him  with  a  visit  shortly  ;  but  in  case  you 
should  unexpectedly  have  any  communication  with  him, 
don’t  mention  having  seen  me  ;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  am  just  returned  from  India,  where  I  should  have 
scraped  up  a  little  money,  but  that  I  spent  it  as  fast  as  I 
got  it.  However,  you  know  that  I  was  always  proverb¬ 
ially  the  luckiest  fellow  in  the  world  —  (and  so,  sir,  youi 
father  was  !)  —  and  while  I  was  in  India,  I  saved  an  old 
colonel’s  life  at  a  tiger-hunt ;  he  went  home  shortly  after¬ 
wards,  and  settled  in  Yorkshire;  and  the  other  day  on 
my  return  to  England,  to  which  my  ill-health  drove  me, 
I  learned  that  my  old  colonel  was  really  dead,  and  had 
left  me  a  handsome  legacy,  with  his  house  in  Yorkshire. 
I  am  now  going  down  to  Yorkshire  to  convert  the  chat¬ 
tels  into  gold  —  to  receive  my  money,  and  I  shall  then 
seek  out  my  good  brother,  my  household  gods,  and,  per¬ 
haps,  though  it’s  not  likely,  settle  into  a  sober  fellow  for 
the  rest  of  my  life.’  I  don’t  tell  you,  young  gentleman, 
that  those  were  your  father’s  exact  words, —  one  can’t 
remember  verbatim  so  many  years  ago  ;  — but  it  was  to 


226 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


that  effect.  He  left  me  the  next  day,  and  I  never  heard 
any  thing  more  of  him  :  to  say  the  truth,  he  was  looking 
wonderfully  yellow,  and  fearfully  reduced.  And  I  fancied 
at  the  time  he  could  not  live  long;  he  was  prematurely 
old,  and  decrepit  in  body,  though  gay  in  spirit ;  so  that 
I  had  tacitly  imagined  in  never  hearing  of  him  more  — 
that  he  had  departed  life.  But,  good  heavens !  did  you 
never  hear  of  this  legacy  ?  ” 

-‘  Never  :  not  a  word  !  ”  said  Walter,  who  had  listened 
to  these  particulars  in  great  surprise.  “And  to  what 
p*\rt  of  Yorkshire  did  he  say  he  was  going  ?  ” 

“That  he  did  not  mention. ” 

“Nor  the  colonel’s  name?” 

“  Not  as  I  remember  ;  he  might,  but  I  think  not.  But 
I  am  certain  that  the  county  was  Yorkshire,  and  the  gen¬ 
tleman,  whatever  was  his  name,  was  a  colonel.  Stay  ! 
I  recollect  one  more  particular,  which  it  is  lucky  I  do 
remember.  Your  father  in  giving  me,  as  I  said  before, 
in  his  own  humorous  strain,  the  history  of  his  adven¬ 
tures,  his  hair-breadth  escapes  from  his  duns,  the  various 
disguises,  and  the  numerous  aliases  he  had  assumed, 
mentioned  that  the  name  he  had  borne  in  India,  and  by 
which,  he  assured  me,  he  had  made  quite  a  good  charac¬ 
ter —  was  Clarke  :  he  also  said,  by  the  way,  that  he  still 
kept  to  that  name,  and  was  very  merry  on  the  advantages 
of  having  so  common  an  one.  ‘By  which/  he  said  wit¬ 
tily,  ‘he  could  father  all  his  own  sins  on  some  other  Mr. 
Clarke,  at  the  same  time  that  he  could  seize  and  appro¬ 
priate  all  the  merits  of  all  his  other  namesakes.’  Ah,  n< 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


221 

offence ;  but  he  was  a  sad  dog,  that  father  ot  yours  ! 
So  you  see  that,  in  all  probability,  if  he  ever  reached 
Yorkshire,  it  was  under  the  name  of  Clarke  that  he 
claimed  and  received  his  legacy.” 

“You  have  told  me  more,”  said  Walter,  joyfully, 
“  than  we  have  heard  since  his  disappearance,  and  I  shall 
turn  my  horses’  heads  northward  to-morrow,  by  break 
of  day.  But  you  say,  ‘if  he  ever  reached  Yorkshire,’  — 
what  should  prevent  him  ?  ” 

“  His  health  !  ”  said  the  non-hypochondriac.  “  I  should 
not  be  greatly  surprised  if — if — in  short  you  had  better 
look  at  the  grave-stones  by  the  way,  for  the  name  of 
Clarke.” 

“  Perhaps  you  can  give  me  the  dates,  sir,”  said  Walter, 
somewhat  cast  down  from  his  elation. 

“  Ay  !  I’ll  see,  I’ll  see,  after  dinner :  the  commonness 
of  the  name  has  its  disadvantages  now.  Poor  Geoffrey  ! 

—  I  dare  say  there  are  fifty  tombs,  to  the  memory  of 
fifty  Clarkes,  between  this  and  York.  But  come,  sir, 
there’s  the  dinner-bell.” 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  maladies  entailed  upon 
the  portly  frame  of  Mr.  Courtland  by  the  vegetable  life 
of  the  departed  trees,  a  want  of  appetite  was  not  among 
the  number.  Whenever  a  man  is  not  abstinent  from 
rule,  or  from  early  habit,  as  in  the  case  of  Aram,  Solitude 
makes  its  votaries  particularly  fond  of  their  dinner 
They  have  no  other  event  wherewith  to  mark  their  day 

—  they  think  over  it,  they  anticipate  it,  they  nourish  its 

I.  — 20 


228 


E  U  G  E  N  E  A  it  A  M  . 


soft  idea  with  their  imagination  ;  if  they  do  look  forward 
to  any  thing  else  more  than  their  dinner,  it  is  —  supper! 

Mr.  Courtland  deliberately  pinned  the  napkin  to  his 
waistcoat,  ordered  all  the  windows  to  be  thrown  open, 
and  set  to  work  like  the  good  Canon  in  Gil  Bias.  He 
still  retained  enough  of  his  former  self,  to  preserve  an 
excellent  cook  ;  so  far  at  least  as  the  excellence  of  a  she- 
artist  goes ;  and  though  most  of  his  viands  were  of  the 
plainest,  who  does  not  know  what  skill  it  requires  to  pro¬ 
duce  an  unexceptionable  roast,  or  a  blameless  boil  ? 
Talk  of  good  professed  cooks,  indeed  !  they  are  plentiful 
as  blackberries  :  it  is  the  good,  plain  cook,  who  is  the 
rarity  ! 

Half  a  tureen  of  strong  soup  ;  three  pounds,  at  least, 
of  stewed  carp  ;  all  the  under  part  of  a  sirloin  of  beef; 
three  quarters  of  a  tongue ;  the  moiety  of  a  chicken  ; 
six  pancakes  and  a  tartlet,  having  severally  disappeared 
down  the  jaws  of  the  invalid, 

“Et  cuncta  terrarum  subacta 
Prjeter  atrocem  animum  Catonis,” 

he  still  called  for  two  deviled  biscuits  and  an  anchovy ! 

When  these  were  gone,  he  had  the  wine  set  on  a  little 
table  by  the  window,  and  declared  that  the  air  seemed 
closer  than  ever.  Walter  was  no  longer  surprised  at  the 
singular  nature  of  the  non-hypochondriac’s  complaint. 

Walter  declined  the  bed  that  Mr.  Courtland  offered 
him  —  though  his  host  kindly  assured  him  that  it  had  no 
curtains,  and  that  there  was  not  a  shutter  to  the  house-" 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


229 


upon  the  p.ea  of  starting  the  next  morning  at  daybreak, 
and  his  consequent  unwillingness  to  disturb  the  regular 
establishment  of  the  invalid:  and  Courtland,  who  was 
still  an  excellent,  hospitable,  friendly  man,  suffered  his 
friend’s  nephew  to  depart  with  regret.  He  supplied  him, 
however,  by  a  reference  to  an  old  note-book,  with  the 
date  of  the  year,  and  even  month,  in  which  he  had  been 
favored  by  a  visit  from  Mr.  Clarke,  who,  it  seemed,  had 
also  changed  his  Christian  name  from  Geoffrey,  to  one 

beginning  with  D - ;  but  whether  it  was  David  or 

Daniel  the  host  remembered  not.  In  parting  with  Wal¬ 
ter,  Courtland  shook  his  head,  and  observed:  — 

“  Entre  nous ,  sir,  I  fear  this  may‘  be  a  wild-goose 
chase.  Your  father  was  too  facetious  to  confine  himself 
to  fact  —  excuse  me,  sir — and  perhaps  the  colonel  and 
the  legacy  were  merely  inventions  — pour  passer  le  temps 
—  there  was  only  one  reason,  indeed,  that  made  me  fully 
believe  the  story.” 

“  What  was  that,  sir  ?  ”  asked  Walter,  blushing  deeply, 
at  the  universality  of  that  estimation  his  father  had  ob¬ 
tained. 

“Excuse  me,  my  young  friend.” 

“Hay,  sir,  let  me  press  you.” 

“  Why,  then,  Mr.  Geoffrey  Lester  did  not  ask  me  to 
lend  him  any  money.” 

The  next  morning,  instead  of  repairing  to  the  gaieties 
of  the  metropolis,  Walter  had,  upon  this  slight  and  du¬ 
bious  clue,  altered  his  journey  northward,  and  with  an 


230 


EUGENE  ARAM 


unquiet  yet  sanguine  spirit,  the  adventurous  son  com¬ 
menced  his  search  after  the  fate  of  a  father  evidently  so 
unworthy  of  the  anxiety  he  had  excited. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

% 

Walter’s  meditations.  —  the  corporal’s  grief  and 

ANGER. —  THE  CORPORAL  PERSONALLY  DESCRIBED. AN 

EXPLANATION  WITH  HIS  MASTER. - THE  CORPORAL  OPENS 

HIMSELF  TO  THE  YOUNG  TRAVELLER. - HIS  OPINIONS  ON 

LOVE  ;  —  ON  THE  WORLD  ; - ON  THE  PLEASURE  AND 

RESPECTABILITY  OF  CHEATING  ; - ON  LADIES - AND  A 

PARTICULAR  CLASS  OF  LADIES  ;  —  ON  AUTHORS  ;  ON  THE 

VALUE  OF  WORDS  ;  —  ON  FIGHTING  ; - WITH  SUNDRY 

OTHER  MATTERS  OF  EQUAL  DELECTATION  AND  IMPROVE¬ 
MENT. —  AN  UNEXPECTED  EVENT. 


“Quale  per  incertam  Lunam  sub  luce  maligna 
Est  iter.”  Virgil. 

The  road  prescribed  to  our  travellers  by  the  change  in 
their  destination  led  them  back  over  a  considerable  por¬ 
tion  of  the  ground  they  had  already  traversed,  and  since 
the  corporal  took  care  that  they  should  remain  some 
hours  in  the  place  where  they  dined,  night  fell  upon  them 
as  they  found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  the  same  long 
and  dreary  stage  in  which  they  had  encountered  Sir  Peter 
Hales  and  the  two  suspected  highwaymen. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


231 


Walter’s  mind  was  full  of  the  project  on  which  he  was 
Dent.  The  reader  can  fully  comprehend  how  vivid  must 
have  been  his  emotions  at  thus  chancing  on  what  might 
prove  a  clue  to  the  mystery  that  hung  over  his  father’s 
fate  ;  and  sanguinely  did  he  now  indulge  those  intense 
meditations  with  which  the  imaginative  minds  of  the 
young  always  brood  over  every  more  favorite  idea,  until 
they  exalt  the  hope  into  a  passion.  Every  thing  con¬ 
nected  with  this  strange  and  roving  parent,  had  possessed 
for  the  breast  of  his  son,  not  only  an  anxious,  but  so  to 
speak,  indulgent  interest.  The  judgment  of  a  young 
man  is  always  inclined  to  sympathize  with  the  wilder  and 
more  enterprising  order  of  spirits  ;  and  Walter  had  been 
at  no  loss  for  secret  excuses  wherewith  to  defend  the 
irregular  life  and  reckless  habits  of  his  parent.  Amidst 
all  his  father’s  evident  and  utter  want  of  principle,  Wal¬ 
ter  clung  with  a  natural  and  self-deceptive  partiality  to 
the  few  traits  of  courage  or  generosity  which  relieved, 
if  they  did  not  redeem,  his  character ;  traits  which,  with 
a  character  of  that  stamp,  are  so  often,  though  always 
so  unprofitably  blended,  and  which  generally  cease  with 
the  commencement  of  age.  He  now  felt  elated  by  the 
conviction,  as  he  had  always  been  inspired  by  the  hope, 
that  it  was  to  be  his  lot  to  discover  one  whom  he  still 
believed  living,  and  whom  he  trusted  to  find  amended. 
The  same  intimate  persuasion  of  the  “  good  luck  ”  of 
Geoffrey  Lester,  which  all  who  had  known  him  appeared 
to  entertain,  was  felt  even  in  a  more  credulous  and  ear¬ 
nest  degree  by  his  son.  Walter  gave  way  now,  indeed, 
20  * 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


232 

to  a  variety  of  conjectures  as  to  the  motives  which  induced 
his  father  to  persist  in  the  concealment  of  his  fate  after  his 
return  to  England;  but  such  of  those  conjectures  as,  if  the 
more  rational,  were  also  the  more  despondent,  he  speedily 
and  resolutely  dismissed.  Sometimes  he  thought  that  his 
father,  on  learning  the  death  of  the  wife  he  had  abandon¬ 
ed,  might  have  been  possessed  with  a  remorse  which  ren¬ 
dered  him  unwilling  to  disclose  himself  to  the  rest  of  his 
family,  and  a  feeling  that  the  main  tie  of  home  was 
broken  ;  sometimes  he  thought  that  the  wanderer  had 
been  disappointed  in  his  expected  legacy,  and  dreading 
the  attacks  of  his  creditors,  or  unwilling  to  throw  him¬ 
self  once  more  on  the  generosity  of  his  brother,  had 

again  suddenly  quitted  England  and  entered  on  some 

# 

enterprise  or  occupation  abroad.  It  was  also  possible, 
to  one  so  reckless  and  changeful,  that  even,  after  receiv¬ 
ing  the  legacy,  a  proposition  from  some  wild  comrade 
might  have  hurried  him  away  on  any  continental  project 
on  the  mere  impulse  of  the  moment,  for  the  impulse  of  the 
moment  had  always  been  the  guide  of  his  life  ;  and  once 
abroad  he  might  have  returned  to  India,  and  in  new  con¬ 
nections  forgotten  the  old  ties  at  home.  Letters  from 
abroad  too,  miscarry;  and  it  was  not  improbable  that 
the  wanderer  might  have  written  repeatedly,  and  receiv¬ 
ing  no  answer  to  his  communications,  imagined  that  the 
dissoluteness  of  his  life  had  deprived  him  of  the  affec¬ 
tions  of  his  family,  and,  deserving  so  well  to  have  the 
proffer  of  renewed  intercourse  rejected,  believed  that  it 
actually  was  so.  These  and  a  hundred  similar  conjee- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


233 


tures,  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  traveller  ;  but 
the  chances  of  a  fatal  accident,  or  sudden  death,  he  perti¬ 
naciously  refused  at  present  to  include  in  the  number  of 
probabilities.  Had  his  father  been  seized  with  a  mortal 
illness  on  the  road,  was  it  not  likely  that  he  would,  in  the 
remorse  occasioned  in  the  hardiest  by  approaching  death, 
have  written  to  his  brother,  and  recommending  his  child 
to  his  care,  have  apprised  him  of  the  addition  to  his  for¬ 
tune  ?  Walter,  then,  did  not  meditate  embarrassing  his 
present  journey  by  those  researches  among  the  dead, 
which  the  worthy  Courtland  had  so  considerately  recom¬ 
mended  to  his  prudence  :  should  his  expedition,  contrary 
to  his  hopes,  prove  wholly  unsuccessful,  it  might  then  be 
well  to  retrace  his  steps  and  adopt  the  suggestion.  But 
what  man,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  ever  took  much 
precaution  on  the  darker  side  of  a  question  on  which  his 
heart  ^vas  interested  ? 

With  what  pleasure,  escaping  from  conjecture  to  a 
more  ultimate  conclusion  —  did  he,  in  recalling  those 
words,  in  which  his  father  had  more  than  hinted  to 
Courtland  of  his  future  amendment,  contemplate  recover¬ 
ing  a  parent  made  wise  by  years  and  sober  by  misfor¬ 
tunes,  and  restoring  him  to  a  hearth  of  tranquil  vir¬ 
tues  and  peaceful  enjoyments  !  He  imaged  to  himself  a 
scene  of  that  domestic  happiness,  which  is  so  perfect  in 
our  dreams,  because  in  our  dreams  monotony  is  always 
excluded  from  the  picture.  And,  in  this  creation  of 
Fancy,  the  form  of  Ellinor  —  his  bright-eyed  and  gentle 
cousin,  was  not  the  least  conspicuous.  Since  his  alterca- 


V. 


234  EUGENE  ARAM. 

tion  with  Madeline,  the  love  he  had  once  thought  so 
ineffaceable,  had  faded  into  a  dim  and  sullen  hue ;  and, 
in  proportion  as  the  image  of  Madeline  grew  indistinct, 
that  of  her  sister  became  more  brilliant.  Often,  now,  as 
he  rode  slowly  onward,  in  the  quiet  of  the  deepening 
night,  and  the  mellow  stars  softening  all  on  which  they 
shone,  he  pressed  the  little  token  of  Ellinor’s  affection  to 
his  heart,  and  wondered  that  it  was  only  within  the  last 
few  days  he  had  discovered  that  her  eyes  were  more 
beautiful  than  Madeline’s,  and  her  smile  more  touching. 
Meanwhile  the  redoubted  corporal,  who  was  by  no  means 
pleased  with  the  change  in  his  master’s  plans,  lingered 
behind,  whistling  the  most  melancholy  tune  in  his  col¬ 
lection.  No  young  lady,  anticipative  of  balls  or  coro¬ 
nets,  had  ever  felt  more  complacent  satisfaction  in  a  jour¬ 
ney  to  London  than  that  which  had  cheered  the  athletic 
breast  of  the  veteran  on  finding  himself,  at  last,  within 
one  day’s  gentle  march  of  the  metropolis.  And  no  young 
lady,  suddenly  summoned  back  in  the  first  flush  of  her 
debut,  by  an  unseasonable  fit  of  gout  or  economy  in  papa, 
ever  felt  more  irreparably  aggrieved  than  now  did  the 
dejected  corporal.  His  master  had  not  yet  even  ac¬ 
quainted  him  with  the  cause  of  the  countermarch  ;  and, 
in  his  own  heart,  he  believed  it  nothing  but  the  wanton 
levity  and  unpardonable  fickleness  “common  to  all  them 
ere  boys  afore  they  have  seen  the  world.”  He  certainly 
considered  himself  a  singularly  ill-used  and  injured  man, 
and  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  as  if  it  were  a 
matter  with  which  heaven  should  be  acquainted  at  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


235 


earliest  possible  opportunity,  he  indulged,  as  we  before 
said,  in  the  melancholy  consolation  of  a  whistled  death- 
dirge,  occasionally  interrupted  by  a  long-drawn  interlude 
half  sigh,  half  snuffle,  of  his  favorite  augh  —  baugh. 

And  here,  we  remember,  that  we  have  not  as  yet  given 
to  our  readers  a  fitting  portrait  of  the  corporal  on  horse¬ 
back.  Perhaps  no  better  opportunity  than  the  present 
may  occur ;  and  perhaps,  also,  Corporal  Bunting,  as  well 
as  Melrose  Abbey,  may  seem  a  yet  more  interesting  pic¬ 
ture  when  viewed  by  the  pale  moonlight. 

The  corporal  then  wore  on  his  head  a  small  cocked 
hat,  which  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  colonel  of  the 
forty-second  —  the  prints  of  my  uncle  Toby  may  serve  to 
suggest  its  shape;  —  it  had  once  boasted  a  feather  — 
that  was  gone  ;  but  the  gold  lace,  though  tarnished,  and 
the  cockade,  though  battered,  still  remained.  From 
under  this  shade  the  profile  of  the  corporal  assumed  a 
particular  aspect  of  heroism :  though  a  good-looking 
man  on  the  main,  it  was  his  air,  height,  and  complexion, 
which  made  him  so ;  and  a  side  view,  unlike  Lucian's 
one-eyed  prince,  was  not  the  most  favorable  point  in 
which  his  features  could  be  regarded.  His  eyes,  which 
were  small  and  shrewd,  were  half  hid  by  a  pair  of  thick 
shaggy  brows,  which,  while  he  whistled,  he  moved  to  and 
fro,  as  a  horse  moves  his  ears  when  he  gives  warning 
that  he  intends  to  shy  :  his  nose  was  straight  —  so  far  so 
good—  but  then  it  did  not  go  far  enough :  for  though  it 
seemed  no  despicable  proboscis  in  front,  somehow  or 
another  it  appeared  exceedingly  short  in  profile;  to  make 


I 


236  EUGENE  ARAM. 

„  ■» 

ap  for  this,  the  upper  lip  was  of  a  length  the  more  strik¬ 
ing  from  being  exceedingly  straight;  — it  had  learned  to 
hold  itself  upright,  and  make  the  most  of  its  length  as 
well  as  its  master  !  his  under  lip,  alone  protruded  in  the 
act  of  whistling,  served  yet  more  markedly  to  throw  the 
nose  into  the  back-ground;  and  as  for  the  chin — talk 
:f  the  upper  lip  being  long  indeed!  —  the  chin  would 
have  made  two  of  it ;  such  a  chin  !  so  long,  so  broad, 
so  massive,  had  it  been  put  on  a  dish  might  have  passed, 
without  discredit  for  a  round  of  beef!  it  looked  yet 
larger  than  it  was  from  the  exceeding  tightness  of  the 
stiff  black  leather  stock  below,  which  forced  forth  all  the 
flesh  it  encountered  into  another  chin, —  a  remove  to  the 
round.  The  hat,  being  somewhat  too  small  for  the  cor¬ 
poral.  and  being  cocked  knowingly  in  front,  left  the  hinder 
half  of  the  head  exposed.  And  the  hair,  carried  into  a 
club  according  to  the  fashion,  lay  thick,  and  of  a  griz¬ 
zled  black,  on  the  brawny  shoulders  below.  The  veteran 
was  dressed  in  a  blue  coat  originally  a  frock  ;  but  the 
skirts,  having  once,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  the  place 
they  guarded,  caught  fire,  as  the  corporal*stood  basking 
himself  at  Peter  Dealtry’s,  had  been  so  far  amputated,  as 
to  leave  only  the  stump  of  a  tail,  which  just  covered,  and 
no  more,  that  part,  which  neither  Art  in  bipeds  nor  Na¬ 
ture  in  quadupeps  loves  to  leave  wholly  exposed.  And 
that  part,  ah,  how  ample  !  had  Liston  seen  it,  he  would 
have  hid  for  ever  his  diminished  —  opposite  to  head!  — 
No  wonder  the  corporal  had  been  so  annoyed  by  tne  par¬ 
cel  of  the  previous  day,  a  coat  so  short,  and  a - ;  but 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


no  matter,  pass  we  to  the  rest !  It  was  not  only  in  its 
skirts  that  this  wicked  coat  was  deficient ;  the  corpora*, 
who  had  within  the  last  few  years  thriven  lustily  in  the 
inactive  serenity  of  Grassdale,  had  outgrown  it  prodigi¬ 
ously  across  the  chest  and  girth  ;  nevertheless  he  man¬ 
aged  to  button  it  up.  And  thus  the  muscular  propor¬ 
tions  of  the  wearer  bursting  forth  in  all  quarters,  gave 
him  the  ludicrous  appearance  of  a  gigantic  schoolboy. 
His  wrists,  and  large  sinewy  hands,  both  employed  at  the 
bridle  of  his  hard-mouthed  charger,  were  markedly  visi¬ 
ble  ;  for  it  was  the  corporal’s  custom  whenever  he  came 
into  an  obscure  part  of  the  road,  carefully  to  take  off, 
and  prudently  to  pocket,  a  pair  of  scrupulously  clean 
white  leather  gloves,  which  smartened  up  his  appearance 
prodigiously  in  passing  through  the  towns  in  their  route. 
His  breeches  were  of  yellow  buckskin,  and  ineffably 
tight ;  his  stockings  were  of  grey  worsted,  and  a  pair  of 
laced  boots,  that  reached  the  ascent  of  a  very  mountain¬ 
ous  calf,  but  declined  any  further  progress,  completed  his 
attire. 

Fancy  then  this  figure,  seated  with  laborious  and  un¬ 
swerving  perpendicularity  on  a  demi-pique  saddle,  orna¬ 
mented  with  a  huge  pair  of  well-stuffed  saddle-bags,  and 
holsters  revealing  the  stocks  of  a  brace  of  immense  pis¬ 
tols,  the  horse  with  its  obstinate  mouth  thrust  out,  and 
the  bridle  drawn  as  tight  as  a  bowstring  !  its  ears  laid 
sullenly  down,  as  if,  like  the  corporal,  it  complained  of 
going  to  Yorkshire,  and  its  long  thick  tail,  not  set  up  in 
u  comely  and  well-educated  arch,  but  hanging  sheepishly 


238 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


down,  as  if  its  buttocks  should  at  least  be  better  coverea 
than  its  master’s ! 

And  now,  reader,  it  is  not  our  fault  if  you  cannot  form 
some  conception  of  the  physical  perfections  of  the  cor¬ 
poral  and  his  steed. 

The  reverie  of  the  contemplative  Bunting  was  inter¬ 
rupted  by  the  voice  of  his  master  calling  upon  him  to 
approach. 

“  Well,  well  !  ”  muttered  he,  “the  younker  can’t  expect 
one  as  close  on  his  heels  as  if  we  were  trotting  into  Lun- 
non,  which  we  might  be  at  this  time,  sure  enough,  if  he 
had  not  been  so  damned  flighty  —  augli  !  ” 

“Bunting,  I  say,  do  you  hear?” 

“  Yes,  your  honor,  yes  ;  this  ere  horse  is  so  ’nation 
sluggish.” 

“  Sluggish  !  why  I  thought  he  was  too  much  the  re¬ 
verse,  Bunting  ?  I  thought  he  was  one  rather  requiring 
the  bridle  than  the  spur.” 

“  Augli !  your  honor,  he’s  slow  when  he  should  not, 
and  fast  when  he  should  not ;  changes  his  mind  from 
pure  whim,  or  pure  spite ;  new  to  the  world,  your  honor, 
that’s  all ;  a  different  thing  if  properly  broke.  There  be 
a  many  like  him  !  ” 

“  You  mean  to  be  personal,  Mr.  Bunting,”  said  Wal¬ 
ter,  laughing  at  the  evident  ill-humor  of  his  attendant. 

“Augh!  indeed  and  no!  —  I  daren’t  —  a  poor  man 
like  me  —  go  for  to  presume  to  be  personal, —  unless  i 
get  hold  <of  a  poorer!” 

4  Why,  Bunting,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


239 


would  be  so  ungenerous  as  to  affront  a  man  because  he 
was  poorer  than  you  ?  fie  !  ” 

“  Waugh,  your  honor  !  and  is  not  that  the  very  reason 
why  I’d  affront  him  ?  surely  it  is  not  my  betters  I  should 
affront ;  that  would  be  ill-bred,  your  honor, —  quite  want 
of  discipline.” 

“But  we  owe  it  to  our  great  Commander,”  said  Wal¬ 
ter,  “to  love  all  men.” 

“  Augh  !  sir,  that’s  very  good  maxim, —  none  better  — 
but  shows  ignorance  of  the  world,  sir  —  great !  ” 

“  Bunting,  your  way  of  thinking  is  quite  disgraceful. 
Do  you  know,  sir,  that  it  is  the  Bible  you  were  speaking 
of?” 

“  Augh,  sir  !  but  the  Bible  was  addressed  to  them  Jew 
creturs !  Howsomever,  it’s  an  excellent  book  for  the 
poor;  keeps  ’em  in  order,  favors  discipline, — none  more 
so.” 

“  Hold  your  tongue.  I  called  yon,  Bunting,  because 
I  think  I  heard  you  say  you  had  once  been  at  York. 
Do  you  know  what  towns  we  shall  pass  on  our  road 
thither  ?  ” 

“Not  I,  your  honor;  it’s  a  mighty  long  way. —  What 
would  the  squire  think? — just  at  Lunnon  too.  Could 
have  learnt  the  whole  road,  sir,  inns  all,  if  you  had  but 
gone  on  to  Lunnon  first.  Howsomever,  young  gentle¬ 
men  will  be  hasty, —  no  confidence  in  those  older,  and 
who  are  experienced  in  the  world.  I  knows  what  I 
knows,”  and  the  corporal  recommenced  his  whistle. 

“  Why,  Bunting,  you  seem  quite  discontented  at  my 
I.  — 21  Q 


240 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


change  of  journey.  Are  you  tired  of  riding,  or  were  you 
very  eager  to  get  to  town  ?  ” 

“  Augh  1  sir ;  I  was  only  thinking  of  what  best  for 
your  honor, —  I!  —  ’tis  not  for  me  to  like  or  dislike. 
Howsomever,  the  horses,  poor  creturs,  must  want  rest 
for  some  days.  Them  dumb  animals  can’t  go  on  for  ever, 
bumpety,  bumpety,  as  your  honor  and  I  do. — Waugh  !  ” 

“  It  is  very  true,  Bunting,  and  I  have  had  some 
thoughts  of  sending  you  home  again  with  the  horses,  and 
travelling  post.” 

“  Eh  !  ”  grunted  the  corporal,  opening  his  eyes  ;  “  hopes 
your  honor  ben’t  serious.” 

“  Why  if  you  continue  to  look  so  serious,  I  must  be 
serious  too  ;  you  understand,  Bunting  ?  ” 

“Augh  —  and  that’s  all,  your  honor,”  cried  the  cor¬ 
poral,  brightening  up,  “  shall  look  merry  enough  to-mor¬ 
row,  when  one’s  in,  as  it  were,  like,  to  the  change  of 
road.  But  you  see,  sir,  it  took  me  by  surprise.  Said  I 
to  myself,  says  I,  it  is  an  odd  thing  for  you,  Jacob  Bun¬ 
ting,  on  the  faith  of  a  man  it  is  1  to  go  tramp  here,  tramp 
there,  without  knowing  why  or  wherefore,  as  if  you  were 
still  a  private  in  the  Forty-second,  ’stead  of  a  retired  cor¬ 
poral.  You  see,  your  honor,  my  pride  was  a  hurt;  but 
it’s  all  over  now  ;  —  only  spites  those  beneath  me, —  I 
knows  the  world  at  my  time  o’  life. 

“Well,  Bunting,  when  you  learn  the  reason  of  my 
change  of  plan,  you’ll  be  perfectly  satisfied  that  I  do 
quite  right.  In  a  word,  you  know  that  my  father  has 
been  long  missing;  I  have  found  a  clue  by  which  I  yet 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


241 


nope  to  trace  him.  This  is  the  reason  of  my  journey  to 
Yorkshire.” 

“  Augli  !  ”  said  the  corporal,  “  and  a  very  good  reason  : 
you’re  a  most  excellent  son,  sir ;  —  and  Lunnon  so  nigh  !  ” 

“  The  thought  of  London  seems  to  have  bewitched 
you  ;  did  you  expect  to  find  the  streets  of  gold  since  you 
were  there  last  ?  ” 

“A — well,  sir;  I  hears  they  be  greatly  improved.” 

“  Pshaw !  you  talk  of  knowing  the  world,  Bunting, 
and  yet  you  pant  to  enter  it  with  all  the  inexperience 
of  a  boy.  Why  even  I  could  set  you  an  example.” 

“ ’Tis  ’cause  I  knows  the  world,”  said  the  corporal, 
exceedingly  nettled,  “that  I  wants  to  get  back  to  it.  I 
have  heard  of  some  spoonies  as  never  kist  a  girl,  but 
never  heard  of  any  one  who  had  kist  a  girl  once,  that  did 
not  long  to  be  at  it  again.” 

“And  I  suppose,  Mr.  Profligate,  it  is  that  longing 
which  makes  you  so  hot  for  London  ?  ” 

“There  have  been  worse  longings  nor  that,”  quoth  the 
corporal  gravely. 

“  Perhaps  you  meditate  marrying  one  of  the  London 
belles;  an  heiress  —  eh?” 

“  Can’t  but  say,”  said  the  corporal  very  solemnly,  “but 
that  might  be  ’ticed  to  marry  a  fortin,  if  so  be  she  was 
young,  pretty,  good-tempered,  and  fell  desperately  in  love 
with  me, —  best  quality  of  all.” 

“You’re  a  modest  fellow.” 

“Why,  the  longer  a  man  lives,  the  more  knows  his 


242 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


value  ;  would  not  sell  myself  a  bargain  now,  wha^evei 
might  at  twenty-one  !  ’’ 

“At  that  rate  you  would  be  beyond  all  price  at 
seventy,”  said  Walter;  “but  now  tell  me,  Bunting,  were 
you  ever  in  love, —  really  and  honestly  in  love  ?  ” 

“  Indeed,  your  honor,”  said  the  corporal,  “  I  have  been 
over  head  and  ears ;  but  that  was  afore  I  learnt  to 
swim.  Love’s  very  much  like  bathing.  At  first  we  go 
souse  to  the  bottom,  but  if  we’re  not  drowned,  then  we 
gather  pluck,  grow  calm,  strike  out  gently,  and  make  a 
deal  pleasanter  thing  of  it  afore  we’ve  done.  I’ll  tell 
you,  sir,  what  I  thinks  of  love :  ’twixt  you  and  me,  sir, 
’tis  not  that  great  thing  in  life,  boys  and  girls  want  to 
make  it  out  to  be ;  if  ’twere  one’s  dinner,  that  would  be 
summut,  for  one  can’t  do  without  that ;  but  lauk,  sir, 
love’s  all  in  the  fancy.  One  does  not  eat  it,  nor  drink  it ; 
and  as  for  the  rest, —  why  it’s  bother  !  ” 

“  Bunting,  you’re  a  beast,”  said  Walter  in  a  rage,  for 
though  the  corporal  had  come  off  with  a  slight  rebuke 
for  his  sneer  at  religion,  we  grieve  to  say  that  an  attack 
on  the  sacredness  of  love  seemed  a  crime  beyond  all  toler¬ 
ation  to  the  theologian  of  twenty-one. 

The  corporal  bowed,  and  thrust  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments. 

“And  what,”  said  Walter,  for  his  spirits  were  raised, 
and  he  liked  recurring  to  the  quaint  shrewdness  of  the 
corporal,  “  and  what,  after  all,  is  the  great  charm  of  the 
world,  that  you  so  much  wish  to  return  to  it  ?  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


243 


?<Augh  1  ’■  replied  the  corporal,  “  ’tis  a  pleasant  thing 
to  look  about  un  with  all  one’s  eyes  open  ;  rogue  here, 
rogue  there  —  keeps  one  alive; — life  in  Lunnon,  life  in 
a  village  —  all  the  difference  ’twixt  healthy  walk,  and  a 
doze  in  arm-chair  ;  by  the  faith  of  a  man,  ’tis  !  ” 

“  What !  it  is  pleasant  to  have  rascals  about  one  ?  ” 

“  Sure/?/  yes,”  returned  the  corporal,  dryly,  “  what  so 
delightful  like  as  to  one’s  cliverness  and  ’bility  all  set  an 
end  —  bristling  up  like  a  porkypine  ;  nothing  makes  a 
man  tread  so  light,  feel  so  proud,  breathe  so  briskly,  as 
the  knowledge  that  he’s  all  his  wits  about  him,  that  lie’s 
a  match  for  any  one,  that  the  devil  himself  could  not 
take  him  in.  Augh  !  that’s  what  I  calls  the  use  of  an 
immortal  soul  —  bother  !  ” 

Walter  laughed. 

“  And  to  feel  one  is  likely  to  be  cheated  is  the  plea¬ 
santest  way  of  passing  one’s  time  in  town,  Bunting,  eh  ?  ” 
“  Augh  !  and  in  cheating  too  !  ”  answered  the  corpor¬ 
al ;  “’cause  you  sees,  sir,  there  be  two  ways  o’  living-, 
one  to  cheat, —  one  to  be  cheated.  ’Tis  pleasant  enough 
to  be  cheated  for  a  little  while,  as  the  younkers  are,  and 
as  you’ll  be,  your  honor  ;  but  that’s  a  pleasure  don’t  last 
long  —  t’other  lasts  all  your  life;  dare  say  your  honor’s 
often  heard  rich  gentlemen  say  to  their  sons,  ‘you  ought, 
for  your  own  happiness’  sake,  like,  my  lad,  to  have  sum- 
mut  to  do  —  ought  to  have  some  profession,  be  you  niver 
so  rich,’  very  true,  your  honor,  and  what  does  that  mean  ? 
why  it  means  that  ’stead  of  being  idle  and  cheated,  the 
boy  ought  to  be  busy  and  cheat  —  augh  !  ” 

21  * 


244 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Must  a  man  who  follows  a  profession,  necessarily 
cheat,  then  ?  ” 

“  Baugh  !  can  your  honor  ask  that  ?  Does  not  the 
lawyer  cheat  ?  and  the  doctor  cheat  ?  and  the  parson 
cheat  more  than  any  ?  and  that’s  the  reason  they  all 
takes  so  much  int’rest  in  their  profession  —  bother  1  ” 

“  But  the  soldier  ?  you  say  nothing  of  him.” 

“  Why,  the  soldier,”  said  the  corporal  with  dignity, 
“  the  private  soldier,  poor  fellow,  is  only  cheated ;  but 
when  he  comes  for  to  get  for  to  be  as  high  as  a  corp’ral, 
or  a  sargent,  he  comes  for  to  get  to  bully  others,  and  to 
cheat.  Augh  !  then  ’tis  not  for  the  privates  to  cheat, — 
that  would  be  ’sumption  indeed,  save  us  !  ” 

“  The  general,  then,  cheats  more  than  any,  I  sup¬ 
pose  ?  ” 

“  Course,  your  honor  ;  he  talks  to  the  world  ’bout  hon¬ 
or  an’  glory,  and  love  of  his  country,  and  sich  like — augh  ! 
that’s  proper  cheating  !  ” 

“You’re  a  bitter  fellow,  Mr.  Bunting;  and  pray,  what 
do  you  think  of  the  ladies  —  ‘  are  they  as  bad  as  the 
men  ?  ’  ” 

“  Ladies  —  augh  !  when  they’re  married  —  yes  !  but  of 
all  them  ere  creturs,  I  respect  the  kept  ladies,  the  most 
—  on  the  faith  of  a  man,  I  do!  Gad  !  how  well  they 
knows  the  world  —  one  quite  envies  the  she  rogues  ;  they 
beats  the  wives  hollow  1  Augh  !  and  your  honor  should 
see  lio^  they  fawns  and  flatters,  and  butters  up  a  man, 
and  makes  them  think  they  loves  him  like  winkey,  all  the 
time  they  ruins  him.  They  kisses  money  out  of  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


245 


miser,  and  sits  in  their  satins,  while  the  wife,  ’drot  her, 
sulks  in  a  gingham.  Oh,  they  be  diver  creturs,  and 
they’ll  do  what  they  likes  with  old  Nick,  when  they  gets 
there,  for  ’tis  the  old  gentlemen  they  cozens  the  best ; 
and  then,”  continued  the  corporal,  waxing  more  and 
more  loquacious,  for  his  appetite  in  talking  grew  with 
what  it  fed  on, —  “then  there  be  another  set  o’  queer 
folks  you’ll  see  in  Lunnon,  sir,  that  is,  if  you  falls  in  with 
’em, —  hang  all  together,  quite  in  a  clink.  I  seed  lots  on 
’em  when  lived  with  the  colonel  —  Colonel  Dysart,  you 
knows  —  augh  ?  ” 

“And  what  are  they?” 

“  Rum  ones,  your  honor  ;  what  they  calls  authors.” 

“  Authors  !  what  the  deuce  had  you  or  the  colonel  to 
do  with  authors  ?  ” 

“  Augh  !  then,  the  colonel  was  a  very  fine  gentleman, 
what  the  larned  calls  a  my-seen-ass,  wrote  little  songs 
himself,  ’crossticks,  you  knows,  your  honor:  once  he 
made  a  play  —  ’cause  why,  he  lived  with  an  actress  !  ” 

“  A  very  good  reason,  indeed,  for  emulating  Shake¬ 
speare  ;  and  did  the  play  succeed  ?  ” 

“  Fancy  it  did,  your  honor ;  for  the  colonel  was  a  dab 
with  the  scissors.” 

“  Scissors  !  the  pen  you  mean  ?  ” 

“  No  !  that’s  what  the  dirty  authors  make  plays  with  ; 
a  lord  and  a  colonel,  my-seen-asses,  always  takes  the 
scissors.” 

“  How  ?  ” 

“Why  the  colonel’s  lady  —  had  lots  of  plays  —  and 


246 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


she  marked  a  scene  here  —  a  jest  there  —  a  line  in  one 
place  —  a  sentiment  in  t’other  —  and  the  colonel  sate  by 
with  a  great  paper  book  —  cut  ’em  out,  pasted  them  in 
book.  Augh  !  but  the  colonel  pleased  the  town  mightily.” 

“  Well,  so  he  saw  a  great  many  authors  ;  and  did  not 
they  please  you  ?  ” 

“  Why  they  be  so  damned  quarrelsome,”  said  the  cor¬ 
poral,  “  wringle,  wrangle,  wrengle,  snap,  growl,  scratch; 
that’s  not  what  a  man  of  the  world  does  ;  man  of  the 
world  niver  quarrels ;  then  too,  these  creturs  always  fan¬ 
cy  you  forgets  that  their  father  was  a  clargyman  ;  they 
always  thinks  more  of  their  family,  like,  than  their  wi'i- 
tings  ;  and  if  they  does  not  get  money  when  they  wants 
it,  they  bristles  up  and  cries,  ‘  not  treated  like  a  gentle¬ 
man,  by  God  !  ’  Yet  after  all,  they’ve  a  deal  of  kindness 
in  ’em,  if  you  knows  how  to  manage  ’em  —  augh!  but, 
cat-kindness,  paw  to  day,  claw  to-morrow.  And  then 
they  always  marries  young,  the  poor  things,  and  have  a 
power  of  children,  and  live  on  the  fame  and  forten  they 
are  to  get  one  of  these  days ;  for  my  eye  !  they  be  the 
most  sanguinest  folks  alive  !  ” 

“  Why,  Bunting,  what  an  observer  you  have  been  ! 
who  could  ever  have  imagined  that  you  had  made  your¬ 
self  master  of  so  many  varieties  in  men  !  ” 

“  Augh  !  your  honor,  I  had  nothing  to  do  when  I  was 
the  colonel’s  valley,  but  to  take  notes  to  ladies  and  make 
use  of  my  eyes.  Always  a  ’flective  man.” 

“  It  is  odd  that,  with  all  your  abilities,  you  did  not 
provide  better  for  yourself.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


247 


“'Twas  not  my  fault,”  said  the  corporal,  quickly, 
but  somehow,  do  what  will  —  ’tis  not  always  the  cliver- 
est  as  foresees  the  best.  But  I  be  young  yet,  your  honor  !  ” 

Walter  stared  at  the  corporal  and  laughed  outright: 
the  corporal  was  exceedingly  piqued. 

“  Augh  !  mayhap  you  thinks,  sir,  that  ’cause  not  so 
young  as  you,  not  young  at  all ;  but,  what’s  forty,  or 
fifty,  or  fifty-five  in  public  life  ?  never  hear  much  of  men 
afore  then.  ’Tis  the  autumn  that  reaps,  spring  sows, 
augh  !  bother  !  ” 

“Very  true  and  very  poetical.  I  see  you  did  not 
live  among  authors  for  nothing.” 

“I  knows  summut  of  language,  your  honor,”  quoth 
the  corporal,  pedantically. 

“It  is  evident.” 

“  For,  to  be  a  man  of  the  world,  sir,  must  know  all  the 
inns  and  outs  of  speechifying  ;  ’tis  words,  sir,  that  makes 
another  man’s  mare  go  your  road.  Augh  1  that  must 
have  been  a  diver  man  as  invented  language  ;  wonders 
who  ’twas  —  mayhap  Moses,  your  honor?” 

“  Never  mind  who  it  was,”  said  Walter,  gravely  ;  “use 
the  gift  discreetly.” 

“Umphl”  said  the  corporal  —  “yes,  your  honor,” 
renewed  he  after  a  pause.  “  It  be  a  marvel  to  think  on 
how  much  a  man  does  in  the  way  of  cheating,  as  has  the 
gift  of  the  gab.  Wants  a  Misses,  talks  her  over  —  wants 
your  purse,  talks  you  out  on  it  —  wants  a  place,  talks 
himself  into  it. —  What  makes  the  parson  ?  words --the 
lawyer  ?  words  —  the  Parliament-man  ?  words  !  —  words 


248 


EUGENE  ARAM 


can  ruin  a  country,  in  the  Big  House  —  words  save  souls, 
in  the  pulpits  —  words  make  even  them  ere  authors,  poor 
creturs,  in  every  man’s  mouth. —  Augh  !  sir,  take  note 
of  the  words ,  and  the  things  will  take  care  of  them 
'selves  —  bother  !  ” 

‘'Your  reflections  amaze  me,  Bunting,”  said  Walter 
smiling  ;  “  but  the  night  begins  to  close  in ;  I  trust  we 
shall  not  meet  with  any  misadventure.” 

“  ’Tis  an  ugsome  bit  of  road !  ”  said  the  corporal,  look¬ 
ing  around  him. 

“  The  pistols  ?  ” 

“Primed  and  loaded,  your  honor.” 

“  After  all,  Bunting,  a  little  skirmish  would  be  no  bad 
sport  —  eh  ?  —  especially  to  an  old  soldier  like  you.” 

“  Augh,  baugh  !  ’tis  no  pleasant  work,  fighting,  with¬ 
out  pay,  at  least ;  ’tis  not  like  love  and  eating,  your  hon¬ 
or,  the  better  for  being,  what  they  calls,  ‘gratis !’  ” 

“Yet  I  have  heard  you  talk  of  the  pleasure  of  fight¬ 
ing  ;  not  for  pay,  Bunting,  but  for  your  king  and  coun¬ 
try  !  ” 

“Augh  !  and  that’s  when  I  wanted  to  cheat  the  poor 
creturs  at  Grassdale,  your  honor  j  don’t  take  the  liberty 
to  talk  stuff  to  my  master !  ” 

They  continued  thus  to  beguile  the  way  till  Walter 
again  sank  into  a  reverie,  while  the  corporal,  who  began 
more  and  more  to  dislike  the  aspect  of  the  ground  they 
had  entered  on,  still  rode  by  his  side. 

The  road  was  heavy,  and  wound  down  the  long  hill 
which  had  stricken  so  much  dismay  into  the  corporal’s 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


24? 


stout  heart  on  the  previous  dtiy,  when  he  had  beheld  its 
commencement  at  the  extremity  of  the  town,  where  but 
for  him  they  had  not  dined.  They  were  now  little  more 
than  a  mile  from  the  said  town,  the  whole  of  the  way 
was  taken  up  by  this  hill,  and  the  road,  very  different 
from  the  smoothened  declivities  of  the  present  day,  seem- 
ed  to  have  been  cut  down  the  very  steepest  part  of  its 
centre  ;  loose  stones  and  deep  ruts  increased  the  difficulty 
of  the  descent,  and  it  was  with  a  slow  pace  and  a  guarded 
rein  that  both  our  travellers  now  continued  their  journey. 
On  the  left  side  of  the  road  was  a  thick  and  lofty  hedge ; 
to  the  right,  a  wild,  bare,  savage  heath,  sloped  down¬ 
ward,  and  just  afforded  a  glimpse  of  the  spires  and  chim¬ 
neys  of  the  town,  at  which  the  corporal  was  already 
supping  in  idea !  That  incomparable  personage  was, 
however,  abruptly  recalled  to  the  present  instant,  by  a 
most  violent  stumble  on  the  part  of  his  hard-mouthed, 
Roman-nosed  horse.  The  horse  was  all  but  down,  and 
the  corporal  all  but  over. 

“  Damn  it,”  said  the  corporal,  slowly  recovering  his 
perpendicularity,  “and  the  way  to  Lunnon  was  as  smooth 
as  a  bowling-green  !  ” 

Ere  this  rueful  exclamation  was  well  out  of  the  cor¬ 
poral’s  mouth,  a  bullet  whizzed  past  him  from  the  hedge; 
it  went  so  close  to  his  ear,  that  but  for  that  lucky  stum¬ 
ble,  Jacob  Bunting  had  been  as  the  grass  of  the  field, 
which  flourisheth  one  moment  and  is  cut  down  the  next  i 

Startled  by  the  sound,  the  corporal’s  horse  made  ofl 


250 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


full  tear  down  the  hill,  and  carried  him  several  paces  be¬ 
yond  his  master,  ere  he  had  power  to  stop  its  career. 
But  Walter  reining  up  his  better-managed  steed,  looked 
round  for  the  enemy,  nor  looked  in  vain. 

Three  men  started  from  the  hedge  with  a  simultane¬ 
ous  shout.  Walter  fired,  but  without  effect;  ere  he 
could  lay  hand  on  the  second  pistol,  his  bridle  was  seiz¬ 
ed,  and  a  violent  blow  from  a  long  double-handed  blud¬ 
geon,  brought  him  to  the  ground. 


*  o 


/ 


BOOK  THIRD 

O.  A <5«ri7  paXiara  y  $  6ia<pQeipovffd  p s. 

M.  Aeiv>)  yap  Stds,  aXX*  ovws  laoipou 

O.  Maviai  re ,  - 

*  *  *  *  * 

M.  fyavTaapuTuiv  raSe  vooeis  irolwv  8»w. 

'OPEST.  398—407. 

0.  Mightiest  indeed  is  the  grief  consuming  me. 
M.  Dreadful  is  the  Divinity,  but  still  placable. 

.  The  furies  also - 

*  •  *  * 

M.  Urged  by  what  apparitions  ao  you  rave  thuii 


I,— 22 


:my 


I 

- 


BOOK  THIRD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FRAUD  AND  VIOLENCE  ENTER  EVEN  GRASSDALE. — PETER’S 
NEWS.  —  THE  LOVERS’  WALK.  —  THE  RE-APPEARANCE. 


“ Auf \ — Whence  comest  thou — what  wouldst  thou?” 

Coriolanus. 

One  evening  Aram  and  Madeline  were  passing  through 
the  village  in  their  accustomed  walk,  when  Peter  Dealtry 
sallied  forth  from  the  Spotted  Dog,  and  hurried  up  to 
the  lovers  with  a  countenance  full  of  importance,  and  a 
little  ruffled  by  fear. 

“Oh,  sir,  sir,  —  (Miss,  your  servant  1)  —  have  you 
neard  the  news  ?  Two  houses  at  Checkington,  (a  small 

(251) 


252 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


town  some  miles  distant  from  (jrassdale,)  were  forcibly 
entered  last  night, —  robbed,  your  honor,  robbed.  Squire 
Tibson  was  tied  to  his  bed,  his  bureau  rifled,  himself 
shockingly  confused  on  the  head  ;  and  the  maid-servant 
Sally  —  her  sister  lived  with  me,  a  very  good  girl  she 
was, —  was  locked  up  in  the  —  the  —  the  —  I  beg  pardon, 
Miss  —  was  locked  up  in  the  cupboard.  As  to  the  other 
house,  they  carried  ofl*  all  the  plate.  There  were  no  less 
than  four  men,  all  masked,  your  honor,  and  armed  with 
pistols.  What  if  they  should  come  here  ?,  such  a  thing 
was  never  heard  of  before  in  these  parts.  But,  sir, — 
but,  Miss, —  do  not  be  afraid,  do  not  ye  now,  for  I  may 
say  with  the  Psalmist, 

‘  But  wicked  men  shall  -drink  the  dreg3 
Which  they  in  wrath  shall  wring, 

For  /  will  lift  my  voice,  and  make 
Them  flee  while  I  do  sing !  * 

“You  could  not  find  a  more  effectual  method  of  put¬ 
ting  them  to  flight,  Peter, ”  said  Madeline  smiling;  “but 
go  and  talk  to  my  uncle.  I  know  we  have  a  whole 
magazine  of  blunderbusses  and  guns  at  home  :  they  may 
be  useful  now.  But  you  are  well  provided  in  case  of 
attack.  Have  you  not  the  corporal’s  famous  cat  Jaco¬ 
bin  a, —  surely  a  match  for  fifty  robbers?” 

“  Ay,  Miss,  on  the  principle  of  set  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief,  perhaps  she  may  ;  but  really  it  is  no  jesting  matter. 
Them  ere  robbers  flourish  like  a  green  bay  tree,  for  a 
space  at  least,  and  it  is  ’nation  bad  sport  tor  us  poor 
lambs  till  they  be  cut  down  and  withered  like  grass 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


253 


But  jour  house,  Mr.  Aram,  is  very  lonesome  like  ;  it  is 
out  of  reach  of  all  your  neighbors.  Hadn’t  you  better, 
sir,  take  up  your  lodgings  at  the  squire’s  for  the  pres¬ 
ent?  ” 

Madeline  pressed  Aram’s  arm,  and  looked  up  fearfully 
in  his  face.  “  Why,  my  good  friend, ’’'said  he  to  Dealtry, 
“  robbers  will  have  little  to  gain  in  my  house,  unless  they 
are  given  to  learned  pursuits  It  would  be  something 
new,  Peter,  to  see  a  gang  of  housebreakers  making  off 
with  a  telescope,  or  a  pair  of  globes,  or  a  great  folio 
covered  with  dust.” 

“  Ay,  your  honor,  but  they  may  be  the  more  savage  for 
being  disappointed.” 

“Well,  well,  Peter,  we  will  see,”  replied  Aram,  impa¬ 
tiently  ;  “  meanwhile  we  may  expect  you  again  at  the 
hall.  Good  evening  for  the  present.” 

“  Do,  dearest  Eugene,  do,  for  heaven’s  sake,”  said 
Madeline,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  as  they,  now  turning 
from  Dealtry,  directed  their  steps  towards  the  quiet  val¬ 
ley,  at  the  end  of  which  the  student’s  house  was  situated, 
and  which  was  now  more  than  ever  Madeline’s  favorite 
walk,  “  do,  dearest  Eugene,  come  up  to  the  manor-house 
till  these  wretches  are  apprehended.  Consider  how  open 
‘jour  house  is  to  attack  ;  and  surely  there  can  be  no 
necessity  to  remain  in  it  now.’i 

Aram’s  calm  brow  darkened  for  a  moment.  “What! 
dearest,”  said  he,  “can  you  be  affected  by  the  foolish 
fears  of  yon  dotard  ?  How  do  we  know  as  yet,  whether 
this  improbable  story  have  any  foundation  in  truth  ?  At 
22*  R 


254 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


all  events,  it  is  evidently  exaggerated.  Perhaps  an  inva¬ 
sion  of  the  poultry-yard,  in  which  some  hungry  fox  was 
the  real  offender,  may  be  the  true  origin  of  this  terrible 
tale.  Nay,  love,  nay,  do  not  look  thus  reproachfully  ;  it 
will  be  time  enough  for  us  when  we  have  sifted  the 
grounds  of  alarm  to  take  our  precautions ;  meanwhile, 
do  not  blame  me  if  in  your  presence  I  cannot  admit  fear. 
Oh  Madeline,  dear,  dear  Madeline,  could  you  know,  could 
you  dream,  how  different  life  has  become  to  me  since  I 
knew  you  !  Formerly,  I  will  frankly  own  to  you,  that 
dark  and  boding  apprehensions  were  wont  to  lie  heavy 
at  my  heart ;  the  cloud  was  more  familiar  to  me  than  the 
sunshine.  But  now  I  have  grown  a  child,  and  can  see 
around  me  nothing  but  hope  ;  my  life  was  winter  —  your 
love  has  breathed  it  into  spring.” 

“And  yet,  Eugene  —  yet  —  ” 

“  Yet  what,  my  Madeline  ?  ” 

“  There  are  still  moments  when  I  have  no  power  over 
your  thoughts  ;  moments  when  you  break  away  from  me  ; 
when  you  mutter  to  yourself  feelings  in  which  I  have  no 
share,  and  which  seem  to  steal  the  consciousness  from 
your  eye  and  the  color  from  your  lip.” 

“  Ah,  indeed  !  ”  said  Aram  quickly ;  “  what !  you  watch 
me  so  closely?” 

“  Can  you  wonder  that  I  do  ?  ”  said  Madeline,  with  an 
earnest  tenderness  in  her  voice. 

“  You  must  not  then,  you  must  not,”  returned  her 
lover,  almost  fiercely;  “I  cannot  bear  too  nice,  and  sud- 
3en  a  scrutiny ;  consider  how  long  I  have  clung  to  a 


EUGENE  ARAM 


25? 

stern  and  solitary  independence  of  thought,  which  allows 
iO  watch,  and  forbids  account  of  itself  to  any  one. 
Leave  it  to  time  and  your  love  to  win  their  inevitable 
way.  Ask  not  too  much  from  me  now.  And  mark, 
mark,  I  pray  you,  whenever,  in  spite  of  myself,  these 
moods  you  refer  to  darken  over  me,  heed  not,  listen  not 
—  Leave  me!  Solitude  is  their  only  cure  !  promise  me 
this,  love — promise.” 

“  It  is  a  harsh  request,  Eugene,  and  I  do  not  think  I 
will  grant  you  so  complete  a  monopoly  of  thought ;  ” 
answered  Madeline,  playfully,  yet  half  in  earnest. 

“Madeline,”  said  Aram,  with  a  deep  solemnity  of  man¬ 
ner,  “  I  urge  a  request  on  which  my  very  love  for  you 
depends.  From  the  depths  of  my  soul,  I  implore  you 
to  grant  it;  yea,  to  the  very  letter.” 

“  Why,  why,  this  is  —  ”  began  Madeline,  when  en¬ 
countering  the  full,  the  dark,  the  inscrutable  gaze  of  her 
strange  lover,  she  broke  off  in  a  sudden  fear,  which  she 
could  not  analyze  ;  and  only  added  in  a  low  and  subdued 
voice,  “I  promise  to  obey  you.” 

As  if  a  weight  was  lifted  from  his  heart,  Aram  now 
brightened  at  once  into  himself  in  his  happiest  mood, 
lie  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  grateful  confidence,  of 
buoyant  love,  that  soon  swept  from  the  remembrance  of 
the  blushing  and  enchanted  Madeline,  the  momentary 
fear,  the  sudden  dullness,  which  his  look  had  involunta¬ 
rily  stricken  into  her  mind.  And  as  they  now  wound 
along  the  most  lonely  part  of  that  wild  valley,  his  arm 
twined  round  her  waist,  and  his  low  but  silver  voice  pour 


256 


EUGENE  ARAM 


ing  magic  into  the  very  air  she  breathed  —  she  felt  per¬ 
haps  a  more  entire  and  unruffled  sentiment  of  present, 
and  a  more  credulous  persuasion  of  future,  happiness, 
than  she  had  ever  experienced  before.  And  Aram  him¬ 
self  dwelt  with  a  more  lively  and  detailed  fulness,  than 
was  his  wont,  on  the  prospects  they  were  to  share,  and 
the  security  and  peace  which  retirement  would  instil  into 
their  mode  of  life. 

“  Is  it  not,”  said  he,  “  with  a  lofty  triumph  that  we 
shall  look  from  our  retreat  upon  the  shifting  passions, 
and  the  hollow  loves  of  the  distant  world?  We  can 
have  no  petty  object,  no  vain  allurement  to  distract  the 
unity  of  our  affection :  we  must  be  all  in  all  to  each 
other  ;  for  what  else  can  there  be  to  engross  our  thoughts, 
and  occupy  our  feelings  here  ? 

“  If,  my  beautiful  love,  you  have  selected  one  whom 
the  world  might  deem  a  strange  choice  for  youth  and 
loveliness  like  yours  ;  you  have,  at  least,  selected  one  who 
can  have  no  idol  but  yourself.  The  poets  tell  you,  and 
rightly,  that  solitude  is  the  right  sphere  for  love ;  but 
how  few  are  the  lovers  whom  solitude  does  not  fatigue  1 
they  rush  into  retirement,  with  souls  unprepared  for  its 
stern  joys  and  its  unvarying  tranquillity:  they  weary  of 
each  other,  because  the  solitude  itself  to  which  they  fled, 
palls  upon  and  oppresses  them.  But  to  me,  the  freedom 
which  low  minds  call  obscurity,  is  the  aliment  of  life  ;  I 
do  not  enter  the  temples  of  nature  as  the  stranger,  but 
the  priest :  nothing  can  ever  tire  me  of  the  lone  and 
august  altars,  on  which  I  sacrificed  my  youth :  and  now, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


251 


what  nature,  what  wisdom  once  were  to  me  —  no,  no, 
more,  immeasurably  more  than  these,  you  are  !  Oh, 
Madeline  !  methinks  there  is  nothing  under  heaven  like 
the  feeling  which  puts  us  apart  from  all  that  agitates, 
and  fevers,  and  degrades  the  herd  of  men ;  which  grants 
us  to  control  the  tenor  of  our  future  life,  because  it  an¬ 
nihilates  our  dependence  upon  others,  and,  while  the  rest 
of  earth  are  hurried  on,  blind  and  unconscious,  by  the 
hand  of  fate,  leaves  us  the  sole  lords  of  our  destiny ;  and 
able,  from  the  past,  which  we  have  governed,  to  become 
the  prophets  of  our  future  !  ” 

At  this  moment  Madeline  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and 
clung  trembling  to  Aram’s  arm.  Amazed,  and  roused 
from  his  enthusiasm,  he  looked  up,  and  on  seeing  the  cause 
of  her  alarm,  seemed  himself  transfixed,  as  by  a  sudden 
terror,  to  the  earth. 

But  a  few  paces  distant,  standing  amidst  the  long  and 
rank  fern  that  grew  on  either  side  of  their  path,  quite 
motionless,  and  looking  on  the  pair  with  a  sarcastic 
smile,  stood  the  ominous  stranger,  whom  the  second 
chapter  of  our  first  volume  introduced  to  the  reader. 

For  one  instant  Aram  seemed  utterly  appalled  and 
overcome  ;  his  cheek  grew  the  color  of  death  ;  and  Mad¬ 
eline  felt  his  heart  beat  with  a  loud,  a  fearful  force  be¬ 
neath  the  breast  to  which  she  clung.  But  his  was  not 
the  nature  any  earthly  fear  could  long  abash  He  whis¬ 
pered  to  Madeline  to  come  on  ;  and  slowly,  and  with  hia 
usual  firm  but  gliding  step,  continued  his  way. 


258 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Good  evening,  Eugene  Aram,”  said  the  stranger  ; 
and  as  he  spoke,  he  touched  his  hat  slightly  to  Madeline. 

“  I  thank  you,”  replied  the  student,  in  a  calm  voice  ; 
“  do  you  want  aught  with  me  ?  ” 

“Humph!  —  yes,  if  it  so  please  you.” 

“Pardon  me,  dear  Madeline,”  said  Aram  softly,  and 
disengaging  himself  from  her,  “but  for  one  moment.” 

lie  advanced  to  the  stranger,  and  Madeline  could  not 
but  note  that,  as  Aram  accosted  him,  his  brow  fell,  and 
his  manner  seemed  violent  and  agitated  ;  but  she  could 
not  hear  the  words  of  either  ;  nor  did  the  conference  last 
above  a  minute.  The  stranger  bowed,  and  turning  away, 
soon  vanished  among  the  shrubs.  Aram  regained  the 
side  of  his  mistress. 

“  Who,”  cried  she  eagerly,  ■“  is  that  fearful  man  ?  What 
is  his  business  ?  What  is  his  name  ?  ” 

“  He  is  a  man  whom  I  knew  well  some  fourteen  years 
ago,”  replied  Aram  coldly,  and  with  ease;  “I  did  not 
then  lead  quite  so  lonely  a  life,  and  we  were  thrown 
much  together.  Since  that  time,  he  has  been  in  unfor¬ 
tunate  circumstances  —  rejoined  the  army  —  he  was  in 
early  life  a  soldier,  and  had  been  disbanded  —  entered 
into  business,  and  failed ;  in  short,  he  has  partaken  of 
those  vicissitudes  inseparable  from  the  life  of  one  driven 
to  seek  the  world.  When  he  travelled  this  road  some 
months  ago,  he  accidentally  heard  of  my  residence  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  naturally  sought  me.  Poor  as  I  am, 
l  was  of  some  assistance  to  him.  His  route  brings  him 


IS  JJfiNE  ARAM. 


259 


hither  again,  and  he  again  seeks  me  :  I  suppose  too  that 
I  must  again  aid  him.” 

“And  is  that  indeed  all?”  said  Madeline,  breathing 
more  freely;  “well,  poor  man,  if  he  be  your  friend,  he 
must  be  inoffensive  —  I  have  done  him  wrong.  And  does 
ne  want  money?  I  have  some  to  give  him  —  here,  Eu¬ 
gene  I  ”  And  the  simple-hearted  girl  put  her  purse  into 
Aram’s  hand. 

“  No,  dearest,”  said  he,  shrinking  back  ;  “  no,  we  shall 
not  require  your  contribution ;  I  can  easily  spare  him 
enough  for  the  present.  But  let  us  turn  back,  it  grows 
chill.” 

“  And  why  did  he  leave  us,  Eugene  ?  ” 

“  Because  I  desired  him  to  visit  me  at  home  an  hour 
hence.” 

“  An  hour  !  then  you  will  not  sup  with  us  to-night  ?  ” 

“No,  not  this  night,  dearest.” 

The  conversation  now  ceased ;  Madeline  in  vain  en¬ 
deavored  to  renew  it.  Aram,  though  without  relapsing 
into  any  of  his  absorbed  reveries,  answered  her  only  in 
monosyllables.  They  arrived  at  the  manor-house,  and 
Aram  at  the  garden-gate  took  leave  of  her  for  the  night, 
and  hastened  backward  towards  his  home.  Madeline, 
after  watching  his  form  through  the  deepening  shadows 
until  it  disappeared,  entered  the  house  with  a  listless 
step  ;  a  nameless  and  thrilling  presentiment  crept  to  her 
heart ;  and  she  could  have  sate  down  and  wept,  though 
without  a  cause. 


260 


EUGENE  ASA  V 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  INTERVIEW  BETWEEN  ARAM  AND  THE  STRANGER 


« The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me, 

The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me.” 

Manfred 

Meanwhile  Aram  strode  rapidly  through  the  village, 
and  not  until  he  had  regained  the  solitary  valley  did  he 
relax  his  step. 

The  evening  had  already  deepened  into  night.  Along 
the  sere  and  melancholy  wood,  the  autumnal  winds  crept, 
with  a  lowly,  but  gathering  moan.  Where  the  water 
held  its  course,  a  damp  and  ghostly  mist  clogged  the  air, 
but  the  skies  were  calm,  and  chequered  only  by  a  few 
clouds,  that  swept  in  long,  white,  spectral  streaks,  over 
the  solemn  stars.  Now  and  then,  the  bat  wheeled  swift¬ 
ly  round,  almost  touching  the  figure  of  the  student,  as  he 
walked  musingly  onward.  And  the  owl  *  that  before  the 
mouth  waned  many  days,  would  be  seen  no  more  in  that 
region,  came  heavily  from  the  trees,  like  a  guilty  thought 
that  deserts  its  shade.  It  was  one  of  those  nights,  half 
dim,  half  glorious,  which  mark  the  early  decline  of  the 
year.  Nature  seemed  resting  and  instinct  with  change ; 


*  That  species  called  the  shorb-eared  owl. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


261 


there  were  those  signs  in  the  atmosphere  which  leave  the 
most  experienced  in  doubt,  whether  the  morning  may 
rise  in  storm  or  sunshine.  And  in  this  particular  period, 
the  skiey  influences  seem  to  tincture  the  animal  life  with 
their  own  mysterious  and  wayward  spirit  of  change. 
The  birds  desert  their  summer  haunts  ;  an  unaccountable 
inquietude  pervades  the  brute  creation  ;  even  men  in  this 
unsettled  season  have  considered  themselves,  more  (than 
at  others)  stirred  by  the  motion  and  whisperings  of  their 
genius.  And  every  creature  that  flows  upon  the  tide  of 
the  Universal  Life  of  Things,  feels  upon  the  ruffled  sur¬ 
face,  the  mighty  and  solemn  change,  which  is  at  work 
within  its  depths. 

And  now  Aram  had  nearly  threaded  the  valley,  and 
his  own  abode  became  visible  on  the  opening  plain,  when 
the  stranger  emerged  from  the  trees  to  the  right,  and 
suddenly  stood  before  the  student.  “  I  tarried  for  you 
here,  Aram,”  said  he,  “  instead  of  seeking  you  at  home, 
at  the  time  you  fixed  ;  for  there  are  certain  private  rea¬ 
sons  which  make  it  prudent  I  should  keep  as  much  as 
possible  among  the  owls,  and  it  was  therefore  safer,  if 
not  more  pleasant,  to  lie  here  amidst  the  fern,  than  to 
make  myself  merry  in  the  village  yonder.” 

“  And  what,”  said  Aram,  “  again  brings  you  hither  ? 
Did  you  not  say,  when  you  visited  me  some  months  since, 
that  you  were  about  to  settle  in  a  different  part  of  the 
country,  with  a  relation  ?  ” 

“  And  so  I  intended  ;  but  Fate,  as  you  would  say,  or 
the  Devil,  as  I  should,  ordered  it  otherwise.  I  had  not 
I.  — 23 


262 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


long  left  you,  when  I  fell  in  with  some  old  friends,  bold 
spirits  and  true  ;  the  brave  outlaws  of  the  road  and  the 
field.  Shall  I  have  any  shame  in  confessing  that  I  pre¬ 
ferred  their  society,  a  society  not  unfamiliar  to  me,  to  the 
dull  and  solitary  life  that  I  might  have  led  in  tending  my 
old  bed-ridden  relations  in  Wales,  who,  after  all,  may  live 
these  twenty  years,  and  at  the  end  can  scarce  leave  me 
enough  for  a  week’s  ill-luck  at  the  hazard-table  ?  In  a 
word,  I  joined  my  gallant  friends,  and  entrusted  myself 
to  their  guidance.  Since  then,  we  have  cruised  around 
the  country,  regaled  ourselves  cheerily,  frightened  the 
timid,  silenced  the  fractious,  and  by  the  help  of  your  fate, 
or  my  devil,  have  found  ourselves  by  accident,  brought 
to  exhibit  our  valor  in  this  very  district,  honored  by  the 
dwelling-place  of  my  learned  friend,  Eugene  Aram.” 

“Trifle  not  with  me,  Houseman,”  said  Aram  sternly; 
“  I  scarcely  yet  understand  you.  Do  you  mean  to  imply, 
that  yourself  and  the  lawless  associates  you  say  you 
have  joined,  are  lying  out  now  for  plunder  in  these 
parts  ?  ” 

“You  say  it:  perhaps  you  heard  of  our  exploits  last 
night,  some  four  miles  hence  ?  ” 

“  Ha  !  was  that  villany  yours  ?  ” 

“  Villany  !  ”  repeated  Houseman,  in  a  tone  of  sullen 
offence.  “  Come,  Master  Aram,  these  words  must  not 
pass  between  you  and  me,  friends  of  such  date,  and  on 
such  a  footing.” 

“  Talk  not  of  the  past,”  replied  Aram,  with  a  livid  lip. 
“  and  call  not  those  whom  Destiny  once,  in  despite  of 


j: UGENE  A  11  A  M . 


263 


Nature,  drove  down  her  dark  tide  in  a  momentary  com¬ 
panionship,  by  the  name  of  friends.  Friends  we  are  not; 
but  while  we  live,  there  is  a  tie  between  us  stronger  than 
that  of  friendship.  ” 

“  You  speak  truth  and  wisdom,”  said  Houseman,  sneer- 
ngly  ;  “  for  my  part,  I  care  not  what  you  call  us,  friends 
3r  foes.” 

“Foes,  foes!”  exclaimed  Aram,  abruptly,  “not  that. 
Has  life  no  medium  in  its  ties?  —  pooh  —  pooh!  not 
foes  ;  we  may  not  be  foes  to  each  other.” 

“It  were  foolish,  at  least  at  present,”  said  Houseman, 
carelessly. 

“  Look  you,  Houseman,”  continued  Aram  drawing  his 
comrade  from  the  path  into  a  wilder  part  of  the  scene, 
and  as  he  spoke,  his  words  were  couched  in  a  more  low 
and  inward  voice  than  heretofore.  “  Look  you,  I  cannot 
live  and  have  my  life  darkened  thus  by  your  presence. 
Is  not  the  world  wide  enough  for  us  both  ?  Why  haunt 
each  other  ?  what  have  you  to  gain  from  me  ?  Can  the 
thoughts  that  my  sight  recalls  to  you  be  brighter,  or  more 
peaceful,  than  those,  which  start  upon  me,  when  I  gaze 
on  you  ?  Does  not  a  ghastly  air,  a  charnel  breath,  hover 
about  us  both  ?  Why  perversely  incur  a  torture  it  is 
so  easy  to  avoid  ?  Leave  me  —  leave  these  scenes.  All 
earth  spreads  before  you  —  choose  your  pursuits,  and 
your  resting-place .  elsewhere,  but  grudge  me  not  this 
little  spot.”  ' 

“  I  have  no  wish  to  disturb  you,  Eugene  Aram,  but  I 
must  live  ;  and  in  order  to  live  I  must  obey  my  compa- 


264 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


nions ;  if  I  deserted  them,  it  would  be  to  starve.  They 
will  not  linger  long  in  this  district ;  a  week,  it  may  be ; 
a  fortnignt,  at  most ;  then,  like  the  Indian  animal,  they 
will  strip  the  leaves  and  desert  the  tree.  In  a  word, 
after  we  have  swept  the  country,  we  are  gone.” 

“  Houseman,  Houseman  1  ”  said  Aram,  passionately, 
and  frowning  till  his  brows  almost  hid  his  eyes,  but  that 
part  of  the  orb  which  they  did  not  hide,  seemed  as  living 
fire  ;  “  I  now  implore,  but  I  can  threaten  —  beware  !  — • 
silence,  I  say ;  ”  (and  he  stamped  his  foot  violently  on 
the  ground,  as  he  saw  Houseman  about  to  interrupt 
him;)  “Listen  to  me  throughout  —  speak  not  to  me  of 
tarrying  here  —  speak  not  of  days,  of  weeks  —  every 
hour  of  which  would  sound  upon  my  ear  like  a  death- 
knell.  Dream  not  of  a  sojourn  in  these  tranquil  shades, 
upon  an  errand  of  dread  and  violence  —  the  minions  of 
the  law  aroused  against  you,  girt  with  the  chances  of 
apprehension  and  a  shameful  death  - - ” 

“And  a  full  confession  of  my  past  sins,”  interrupted 
Houseman,  laughing  wildly. 

“  Fiend  !  devil  !  ”  cried  Aram,  grasping  his  comrade 
by  the  throat,  and  shaking  him  with  a  vehemence  that 
Houseman,  though  a  man  of  great  strength  and  sinew, 
impotently  attempted  to  resist.  “  Breathe  but  another 
word  of  such  import ;  dare  to  menace  me  with  the  ven¬ 
geance  of  such  a  thing  as  thou,  and,* by  the  God  above 
us,  I  will  lay  thee  dead  at  my  feet !  ” 

“  Release  my  throat,  or  you  will  commit  murder.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


265 


gasped  Houseman  with  difficulty,  and  growing  already 
black  in  the  face. 

Aram  suddenly  relinquished  his  gripe,  and  walked 
away  with  a  hurried  step,  muttering  to  himself.  He  then 
returned  to  the  side  of  Houseman,  whose  flesh  still  qui¬ 
vered  either  with  rage  or  fear,  and,  his  own  self-posses¬ 
sion  completely  restored,  stood  gazing  upon  him  with 
folded  arms,  and  his  usual  deep  and  passionless  composure 
of  countenance  :  and  Houseman,  if  he  could  not  boldly 
confront,  did  not  altogether  shrink  from,  his  eye.  So 
there  and  thus  they  stood,  at  a  little  distance  from  each 
other,  both  silent,  and  yet  with  something  unutterably 
fearful  in  their  silence. 

“  Houseman,”  said  Aram  at  length,  in  a  calm,  yet  hoi-' 
low  voice,  “it  may  be  that  I  was  wrong;  but  there  lives 
no  man  on  earth,  save  you,  who  could  thus  stir  my  blood, 
—  nor  you  with  ease.  And  know,  when  you  menace  me, 
that  it  is  not  your  menace  that  subdues  or  shakes  my 
spirit ;  but  that  which  robs  my  veins  of  their  even  tenor 
is  that  you  should  deem  your  menace  could  have  such 
power,  or  that  you, —  that  any  man, —  should  arrogate  to 
himself  the  thought  that  he  could,  by  the  prospect  of 
whatsoever  danger,  humble  the  soul  and  curb  the  will  of 
Eugene  Aram.  And  now  I  am  calm :  say  what  you 
will,  I  cannot  be  vexed  again.” 

“I  have  done,”  replied  Houseman  coldly:  “I  have 
nothing  to  say ;  farewell  !  ”  and  he  moved  away  among 
the  trees. 

“Stay,”  cried  Aram  in  some  agitation;  “stay;  we 
23* 


266 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


must  not  part  thus.  Look  you,  Houseman,  you  say  you 
would  starve  should  you  leave  your  present  associates 
That  may  not  be  ;  quit  them  this  night, —  this  moment: 
leave  the  neighborhood,  and  the  little  in  my  power  is  at 
your  will.” 

“  As  to  that,”  said  Houseman  drily,  “  what  is  in  your 
power  is,  I  fear  me,  so  little  as  not  to  counterbalance  the 
advantages  I  should  lose  in  quitting  my  companions. 
I  expect  to  net  some  three  hundreds  before  I  leave  these 
parts.” 

“  Some  three  hundreds  !  ”  repeated  Aram  recoiling  ; 
“  that  were  indeed  beyond  me.  I  told  you  when  we  last 
met  that  it  is  only  by  an  annual  payment  I  draw  the  little 
•wealth  I  have.” 

“  I  remember  it.  I  do  not  ask  you  for  money,  Eugene 
Aram  ;  these  hands  can  maintain  me,”  replied  House¬ 
man,  smiling  grimly.  “  I  told  you  at  once  the  sum  I 
expected  to.  receive  somewhere,  in  order  to  prove  that 
you  need  not  vex  your  benevolent  heart  to  afford  me 
relief.  I  knew  well  the  sum  I  named  was  out  of  your 
power,  unless  indeed  it  be  part  of  the  marriage  portion 
you  are  about  to  receive  with  your  bride.  Fie,  Aram  ! 
what,  secrets  from  your  old  friend?  You  see  I  pick  up 
the  news  of  the  place  without  your  confidence.” 

Again  Aram’s  face  worked,  and  his  lip  quivered ;  but 
he  conquered  his  passion  with  a  surprising  self-command, 
and  answered  mildly, 

“  I  do  not  know,  Houseman,  whether  I  shall  receive 
any  marriage  portion  whatsoever:  if  I  do,  I  am  willing 


FUOENE  ARAM. 


2PP 

to  make  some  arrangement  by  which  I  could  engage  you 
to  molest  me  no  more.  But  it  yet  wants  several  days  to 
my  marriage  ;  quit  the  neighborhood  now,  and  a  month 
hence  let  us  meet  again.  Whatever  at  that  time  may  be 
my  resources,  you  shall  frankly  know  them.” 

“It  cannot  be,”  said  Houseman;  “I  quit  not  these 
districts  without  a  certain  sum,  not  in  hope,  but  posses¬ 
sion.  But  why  interfere  with  me  ?  I  seek  not  my  hoards 
in  your  coffer.  Why  so  anxious  that  I  should  not  breathe 
the  same  air  as  yourself  ?  ” 

“  It  matters  not,”  replied  Aram,  with  a  deep  and 
ghastly  voice ;  “  but  when  you  are  near  me,  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  with  the  dead';  it  is  a  spectre  that  I  would  exorcise 
in  ridding  me  of  your  presence.  Yet  this  is  not  what  I 
now  speak  of.  You  are  engaged,  according  to  your  own 
lips,  in  lawless  and  midnight  schemes,  in  which  you  may, 
(and  the  tide  of  chances  runs  towards  that  bourne,)  be 
seized  by  the  hand  of  justice.” 

“Ho,”  said  Houseman,  sullenly,  “and  was  it  not  for 
saying  that  you  feared  this,  and  its  probable  conse¬ 
quences,  that  you  well-nigh  stifled  me,  but  now?  —  so 
truth  may  be  said  one  moment  with  impunity,  and  the 
next  with  peril  of  life  !  These  are  the  subtleties  of  you 
wise  schoolmen,  I  suppose.  Your  Aristotles,  and  your 
Zenos,  your  Platos,  and  your  Epicurus’s,  teach  you  nota¬ 
ble  distinctions,  truly  !  ” 

u  Peace  !  ”  said  Aram  ;  “  are  we  at  all  times  ourselves  ? 
Are  the  passions  never  our  masters?  You  maddened  me 
into  anger;  behold,  I  am  now  calm  :  the  subjects  discuss 


-268 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ed  between  myself  and  you,  are  of  life  and  death  ;  let  us 
approach  them  with  our  senses  collected  and  prepared. 
What,  Houseman,  are  you  bent  upon  your  own  destruc¬ 
tion,  as  well  as  mine,  that  you  persevere  in  courses  that 
must  end  in  a  death  of  shame  ?  ” 

‘‘What  else  can  I  do  ?  I  will  not  work,  and  I  cannot 
live  like  you  in  a  lone  wilderness  on  a  crust  of  bread 
Nor 'is  my  name  like  yours,  mouthed  by  the  praise  of 
honest  men  :  my  character  is  marked  ;  those  who  once 
knew  me,  shun  now.  I  have  no  resource  for  society, 
(for  I  cannot  face  myself  alone,)  but  in  the  fellowship 
of  men  like  myself,  whom  the  world  has  thrust  from  its 
pale.  I  have  no  resource  for  bread,  save  in  the  pursuits 
that  are  branded  by  justice,  and  accompanied  with  snares 
and  danger.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  ” 

“Is  it  not  better,”  said  Aram,  “to  enjoy  peace  and 
safety  upon  a  small  but  certain  pittance,  than  to  live  thus 
from  hand  to  mouth  ?  vibrating  from  wealth  to  famine, 
and  the  rope  around  your  neck  sleeping  and  awake  ? 
Seek  your  relation  ;  in  that  quarter,  you  yourself  said 
your  character  was  not  branded  :  live  with  him,  and  know 
the  quiet  of  easy  days,  and  I  promise  you,  that  if  aught 
be  in  my  power  to  make  your  lot  more  suitable  to  your 
wants,  so  long  as  you  lead  the  life  of  honest  men,  it  shall 
be  freely  yours.  Is  not  this  better,  Houseman,  than  a 
short  and  sleepless  career  of  dread  ?  ” 

“  Aram,”  answered  Houseman,  “  are  you,  in  truth,  calm 
enough  to  hear  me  speak  ?  I  warn  you,  that  if  agair 
you  forget  yourself,  and  lay  hands  on  me - ”  . 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


269 


“  Threaten  not,  threaten  not,”  interrupted  Aram,  <l  but 
proceed ;  all  within  me  is  now  still  and  cold  as  ice. 
Proceed  without  fear  or  scruple.” 

“  Be  it  so  ;  we  do  not  love  one  another :  you  have 
affected  contempt  for  me  —  and  I  —  I  • — no  matter  —  1 
am  not  a  stone  or  stick,  that  I  should  not  feel.  You 
have  scorned  me  —  you  have  outraged  me  —  you  have 
not  assumed  towards  me  even  the  decent  hypocrisies  of 
prudence — yet  now  you  would  ask  of  me,  the  conduct, 
the  sympathy,  the  forbearance,  the  concessions,  of  friend¬ 
ship.  You  wish  that  I  should  quit  these  scenes,  where, 
to  my  judgment,  a  certain  advantage  waits  me,  solely  that 
I  may  lighten  your  breast  of  its  selfish  fears.  You  dread 
the  dangers  that  await  me  on  your  own  account.  And 
in  my  apprehension,  you  forebode  your  own  doom.  You 
ask  me,  nay,  not  ask,  you  would  command,  you  would 
awe  me  to  sacrifice  my  will  and  wishes,  in  order  to  soothe 
your  anxieties,  and  strengthen  your  own  safety.  Mark 
me  !  Eugene  Aram,  I  have  been  treated  as  a  tool,  and  I 
will  not  be  governed  as  a  friend.  I  will  not  stir  from  the 
vicinity  of  your  home,  till  my  designs  be  fulfilled, —  I 
enjoy,  I  hug  myself  in  your  torments.  I  exult  in  the 
terror  with  which  you  will  hear  of  each  new  enterprise, 
each  new  daring,  each  new  triumph  of  myself  and  my 
gallant  comrades.  And  now  I  am  avenged  for  the  affront 
you  put  upon  me.” 

Though  Aram  trembled  with  suppressed  passions,  from 
limb  to  limb,  his  voice  was  still  calm,  and  his  lip  even 

wore  a  smile  as  he  answered. — 

-  s 


270 


E  UG  E  NE  ARAM. 


“  I  was  prepared  for  this,  Houseman  :  you  utter  nothing 
that  surprises  or  appals  me.  You  hate  me;  it  is  natu¬ 
ral  ;  men  united  as  we  are,  rarely  look  on  each  other 

with  a  friendly  or  a  pitying  eye.  But,  Houseman,  I 

* 

know  you  !  —  you  are  a  man  of  vehement  passions,  but 
interest  with  you  is  yet  stronger  than  passion.  If  not, 
our  conference  is  over.  Go  —  and  do  your  worst.” 

“You  are  right,  most  learned  scholar;  I  can  fettei 
the  tiger  within,  in  his  deadliest  rage-,  by  a  golden  chain.” 

“Well,  then,  Houseman,  it  is  not  your  interest  to  be¬ 
tray  me  —  my  destruction  is  your  own.” 

“  I  grant  it ;  but  if  I  am  apprehended,  and  to  be  hung 
for  robbery  ?  ” 

“  It  will  be  no  longer  an  object  to  you,  to  care  for  my 
safety.  Assuredly,  I  comprehend  this.  But  my  interest 
induces  me  to  wish  that  you  be  removed  from  the  peril 
of  apprehension,  and  your  interest  replies,  that  if  you 
can  obtain  equal  advantages  in  security,  you  would  forego 
advantages  accompanied  by  peril.  Say  what  we  will, 
wander  as  we  will,  it  is  to  this  point  that  we  must  return 
at  last.” 

“Nothing  can  be  clearer;  and  were  you  a  rich  man, 
Eugene  Aram,  or  could  you  obtain  your  bride’s  dowry 
(no  doubt  a  respectable  sum)  in  advance,  the  arrange¬ 
ment  might  at  once  be  settled.” 

Aram  gasped  for  breath,  and  as  usual  with  him  in 
emotion,  made  several  strides  forward,  muttering  rapidly, 
and  indistinctly  to  himself,  and  then  returned. 

“  Even  were  this  possible,  it  would  be  but  a  short  re- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


271 


prieve  ;  I  couki  not  trust  you  ;  the  sum  would  be  spent, 
and  I  again  in  the  state  to  which  you  have  compelled  me 
now;  but  without  the  means  again  to  relieve  myself. 
No,  no  !  if  the  blow  must  fall,  be  it  so  one  day  as 
another.” 

“  As  you  will,”  said  Houseman;  “but — ”  Just  at 
that  moment,  a  long  shrill  whistle  sounded  below,  as  from 
the  water.  Houseman  paused  abruptly — “That  signal 
is  from  my  comrades  ;  I  must  away.  Hark,  again ! 
Farewell,  Aram.” 

“Farewell,  if  it  must  be  so,”  said  Aram  in  a  tone  of 
dogged  sullenness;  “but  to-morrow,  should  you  know 
of  any  means  by  which  I  could  feel  secure,  beyond  the 
security  of  your  own  word,  from  your  future  molestation, 
I  might  —  yet  how  ?  ” 

“  To-morrow,”  said  Houseman,  “  I  cannot  answer  for 
ray-self ;  it  is  not  always  that  I  can  leave  ray  comrades ; 
a  natural  jealousy  makes  them  suspicious  of  the  absence 
of  their  friends.  Yet  hold  ;  the  night  after  to-morrow, 
the  Sabbath  night,  most  virtuous  Aram,  I  can  meet  you 
—  but  not  here  —  some  miles  hence.  You  know  the  foot 
of  the  Devil’s  Crag,  by  the  water-fall ;  it  is  a  spot  quiet 
and  shaded  enough  in  all  conscience  for  our  interview  ; 
and  I  will  tell  you  a  secret  I  would  trust  to  no  other 
man — (hark  again  !) — it  is  close  by  our  present  lurking- 
place.  Meet  me  there  I  —  it  would,  indeed,  be  pleasanter 
to  hold  our  conference  under  shelter  —  but  just  at  pre¬ 
sent,  I  would  rather  not  trust  myself  beneath  any  honest 


272 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


man’s  roof  in  this  neighborhood.  Adieu  !  on  Sunday 
night,  one  hour  before  midnight.” 

The  robber,  for  such  then  he  was,  waved  his  hand,  and 
hurried  away  in  the  direction  from  which  the  signal  seem¬ 
ed  to  come. 

Aram  gaxed  after  him,  but  with  vacant  eyes  ;  and  re¬ 
mained  several  minutes  rooted  to  the  spot,  as  if  the  very 
life  had  left  him. 

“  The  Sabbath  night !  ”  said  he,  at  length,  moving 
slowly  on  ;  “  and  I  must  spin  forth  my  existence  in  trou¬ 
ble  and  fear  till  then  —  till  then  !  what  remedy  can  I  then 
invent  ?  It  is  clear  that  I  can  have  no  dependence  on 
his  word,  if  won  :  and  I  have  not  even  aught  wherewith 
to  buy  it.  But  courage,  courage,  my  heart ;  and  work 
thou,  my  busy  brain  !  Ye  have  never  failed  me  yet  1  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


273 


CHAPTER  III. 

FRESH  ALARM  IN  THE  VILLAGE. —  LESTER’S  VISIT  TO  ARAM. 

- A  TRAIT  OF  DELICATE  KINDNESS  IN  THE  STUDENT.— 

MADELINE. —  HER  PRONENESS  TO  CONFIDE. - THE  CON¬ 
VERSATION  BETWEEN  LESTER  AND  ARAM. - THE  PER¬ 

SONS  BY  WHOM  IT  IS  INTERRUPTED 


“Not  my  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world,  dreaming  on  things  to  come, 

Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control.” 

Shakspeare’s  Sonnets. 

Commend  me  to  their  loves,  and  I  am  proud  to  say, 
That  my  occasions  have  found  time  to  use  them 
Toward  a  supply  of  money;  let  the  request 
Be  fifty  talents.”  —  Timon  of  Athens. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  alive  and 
bustling  with  terror  and  consternation.  Another  and  yet 
more  daring  robbery,  had  been  committed  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood,  and  the  police  of  the  county  town  had  been 
summoned,  and  were  now  busy  in  search  of  the  offenders. 
Aram  had  been  early  disturbed  by  the  officious  anxiety 
of  some  of  his  neighbors ;  and  it  wanted  yet  some  hours 
of  noon,  when  Lester  himself  came  to  seek  and  consult 
with  the  student. 

Aram  was  alone  in  his  large  and  gloomy  chamber,  sur¬ 
rounded,  as  usual,  by  his  books,  but  not  as  usual  engaged 

I.  — 24 


274 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


in  their  contents.  With  his  face  leaning  on  his  hand, 
and  his  eyes  gazing  on  a  dull  fire,  that  crept  heavily  up¬ 
ward  through  the  clamp  fuel,  he  sate  by  his  hearth,  list¬ 
less,  but  wrapt  in  thought. 

“  Well,  my  friend,”  said  Lester,  displacing  the  books 
from  one  of  the  chairs,  and  drawing  the  seat  near  the 
student’s  —  “you  have  ere  this  heard  the  news,  and  in¬ 
deed  in  a  county  so  quiet  as  ours,  these  outrages  appear 
the  more  fearful,  from  their  being  £0  unlooked-for.  We 
must  set  a  guard  in  the  village,  Aram,  and  you  must 
leave  this  defenceless  hermitage  and  come  down  to  us ; 
not  for  your  own  sake, —  but  consider  you  will  be  an 
additional  safeguard  to  Madeline.  You  will  lock  up  the 
house,  dismiss  your  poor  old  governante  to  her  friends  in 
the  village,  and  walk  back  with  me  at  once  to  the  hall.” 

Aram  turned  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

“I  feel  your  kindness,”  said  he  after  a  pause,  “but  I 
cannot  accept  it' — Madeline,”  he  stopped  short  at  that 
name,  and  added  in  an  altered  tone  ;  “  no,  I  will  be  one 
of  the  watch,  Lester;  I  will  look  to  her  —  to  your  — 
safety ;  but  I  cannot  sleep  under  another  roof.  I  am 
superstitious,  Lester — superstitious.  I  have  made  a  vow, 
a  foolish  one  perhaps,  but  I  dare  not  break  it.  And  my 
vow  binds  me,  save  on  indispensable  and  urgent  necessity, 
not  to  pass  a  night  anywhere  but  in  my  own  home.” 

“But  there  is  necessity.” 

“  My  conscience  says  not,”  said  Aram,  smiling :  “  peace, 
my  good  friend,  we  cannot  conquer  men’s  foibles,  or 
wrestle  with  men’s  scruples.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


275 


Lester  in  vain  attempted  to  shake  Aram’s  resolution 
on  this  head ;  he  found  him  immovable,  and  gave  up  the 
effort  in  despair. 

“Well,”  said  he,  “at  all  events  we  have  set  up  a 
watch,  and  can  spare  you  a  couple  of  defenders.  They 
shall  reconnoitre  in  the  neighborhood  of  your  house,  if 
you  persevere  in  your  determination,  and  this  will  serve 
in  some  slight  measure  to  satisfy  poor  Madeline.” 

“Be  it  so,”  replied  Aram ;  “and  dear  Madeline  her¬ 
self,  is  she  so  alarmed  ?  ” 

And  now  in  spite  of  all  the  more  wearing  and  haggard 
thoughts  that  preyed  upon  his  breast,  and  the  dangers  by 
which  he  conceived  himself  beset,  the  student’s  face,  as 
he  listened  with  eager  attention  to  every  word  that  Les¬ 
ter  uttered  concerning  his  daughter,  testified  how  alive 
he  yet  was  to  the  least  incident  that  related  to  Madeline, 
and  how  easily  her  innocent  and  peaceful  remembrance 
could  allure  him  from  himself. 

“This  room,”  said  Lester,  looking  round,  “will  be, 
I  conclude,  after  Madeline’s  own  heart ;  but  will  you 
always  suffer  her  here  ?  students  do  not  sometimes  like 
even  the  gentlest  interruption.” 

“  I  have  not  forgotten  that  Madeline’s  comfort  requires 
some  more  cheerful  retreat  than  this,”  said  Aram,  with  a 
melancholy  expression  of  countenance.  “  Follow  me, 
Lester ;  I  meant  this  for  a  little  surprise  to  her.  But 
heaven  only  knows  if  I  shall  ever  show  it  to  herself!  ” 

“  Why  ?  what  doubt  of  that  can  even  your  boding 
temper  discover  ?  ” 


276 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


\ 


“We  are  as  the  wanderers  in  the  desert,”  answered 
Aram,  “  who  are  taught  wisely  to  distrust  their  own 
senses :  that  which  they  gaze  upon  as  the  waters  of  exist¬ 
ence,  is  often  but  a  faithless  vapor  that  would  lure  them 
to  destruction.” 

In  thus  speaking  he  had  traversed  the  room,  and,  open- 
ing  a  door,  showed  a  small  chamber  with  which  it  com¬ 
municated,  and  which  Aram  had  fitted  up  with  evident, 
and  not  ungraceful  care.  Every  article  of  furniture  that 
Madeline  might  most  fancy,  he  had  sent  for  from  the 
neighboring  town.  And  some  of  the  lighter  and  more 
attractive  books  that  he  possessed,  were  ranged  around 
on  shelves,  above  which  were  vases  intended  for  flowers ; 
the  window  opened  upon  a  little  plot  that  had  been  lately 
broken  up  into  a  small  garden,  and  was  already  intersect¬ 
ed  with  walks,  and  rich  with  shrubs. 

There  was  something  in  this  chamber  that  so  entirely 
contrasted  the  one  it  adjoined,  something  so  light  aud 
cheerful,  and  even  gay  in  its  decoration  and  its  tout  en¬ 
semble,  that  Lester  uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight  and 
surprise.  And  indeed  it  did  appear  to  him  touching, 
that  this  austere  scholar,  so  wrapt  in  thought,  and  so  in¬ 
attentive  to  the  common  forms  of  life,  should  have  mani¬ 
fested  this  tender  and  delicate  consideration.  In  another 
it  would  have  been  nothing,  but  in  Aram,  it  was  a  trait 
that  brought  involuntary  tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  good 
Lester.  Aram  observed  them  :  he  walked  hastily  away 
to  the  window,  and  sighed  heavily ;  this  did  not  escape 


< 


EUGENE  ARAM.  271 

his  friend’s  notice,  and  after  commenting  on  the  attrac¬ 
tions  of  the  little  room  —  Lester  said  : 

“You  seem  oppressed  in  spirits,  Eugene:  can  any 
thing  have  chanced  to  disturb  you,  beyond,  at  least,  these 
alarms  which  are  enough  to  agitate  the  nerves  of  the 
hardiest  of  us  ?  ” 

“  No,”  said  Aram  ;  “  I  had  no  sleep  last  night,  and  my 
health  is  easily  affected,  and  with  my  health  my  mind  ; 
but  let  us  go  to  Madeline  ;  the  sight  of  her  will  revive 
me.” 

They  then  strolled  down  to  the  manor-house,  and  met 
by  the  way  a  band  of  the  younger  heroes  of  the  village, 
who  had  volunteered  to  act  as  a  patrole,  and  who  were 
now  marshalled  by  Peter  Dealtry,  in  a  fit  of  heroic  en¬ 
thusiasm. 

Although  it  was  broad  daylight,  arm,  consequently, 
there  was  little  cause  for  immediate  alarm,  the  worthy 
publican  carried  on  his  shoulder  a  musket  on  full  cock ; 
and  each  moment  he  kept  peering  about,  as  if  not  only 
every  bush,  but  every  blade  of  grass  contained  an  ambus¬ 
cade,  ready  to  spring  up  the  instant  he  was  off  his  guard. 
By  his  side  the  redoubted  Jacobina,  who  had  transferred 
to  her  new  master,  the  attachment  she  had  originally  pos¬ 
sessed  for  the  corporal,  trotted  peeringly  along,  her  tail 
perpendicularly  cocked,  and  her  ears  moving  to  and  fro, 
with  a  most  incomparable  air  of  vigilant  sagacity.  The 
cautious  Peter  every  now  and  then  checked  her  ardor,  as 
she  was  about  to  quicken  her  step,  and  enliven  the 
march  by  the  gambols  better  adapted  to  serener  times 
24* 


278 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Soho,  Jacobina,  soho  !  gently,  girl,  gently;  thou 
little  knowest  the  clangers  that  may  beset  thee.  Come 
up,  my  good  fellows,  come  to  the  Spotted  Dog ;  I  will 
tap  a  barrel  on  purpose  for  you  ;  and  we  will  settle  the 
plan  of  defence  for  the  night.  Jacobina,  come  in,  I  say, 
come  in, 

‘Lest,  like  a  lion,  they  thee  tear, 

And  rend  in  pieces  small; 

While  there  is  none  to  succor  thee, 

And  rid  thee  out  of  thrall.’ 

What  ho,  there !  Oh  !  I  beg  your  honor’s  pardon  ! 
Your  servant,  Mr.  Aram.” 

“  What  patroling  already?”  said  the  squire:  “your 
men  will  be  tired  before  they  are  wanted  ;  reserve  their 
ardor  for  the  night.” 

“  Oh,  your  honor,  I  have  only  been  beating  up  for  re¬ 
cruits  ;  and  we  are  going  to  consult  a  bit  at  home.  Ah  1 
what  a  pity  the  corporal  isn’t  here  :  he  would  have  been 
a  tower  of  strength  unto  the  righteous.  But  howsomever, 
I  do  my  best  to  supply  his  place  —  Jacobina,  child,  be 
still :  I  can’t  say  as  I  knows  the  musket-sarvice,  your 
honor;  but  I  fancy’s  as  how,  like  Joe  Roarjug,  the 
Methodist,  we  can  do  it  extemporaneous-like  at  a  pinch.” 

“  A  bold  heart,  Peter,  is  the  best  preparation,”  said 
the  squire. 

“And,”  quoth  Peter  quickly,  “what  saith  the  wor¬ 
shipful  Mister  Sternhold,  in  the  45th  psalm,  5th  verse, 

‘Go  forth  with  godly  speed,  in  meekness,  truth  and  right, 

And  thy  right  hand  shall  thee  instruct  in  works  of  dreadful 
might.’  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


« 


27S 


Peter  quoted  these  verses,  especially  the  last,  with  a 
truculent  frown,  and  a  brandishing  of  the  musxet,  that 
surprisingly  encouraged  the  hearts  of  his  little  armament; 
and  with  a  general  murmur  of  enthusiasm,  the  warlike 
band  marched  off  to  the  Spotted  Dog. 

Lester  and  his  companion  found  Madeline  and  Ellinor 
standing  at  the  window  of  the  hall ;  and  Madeline’s  light 
step  was  the  first  that  sprang  forward  to  welcome  their 
return  :  even  the  face  of  the  student  brightened,  when  he 
saw  the  kindling  eye,  the  parted  lip,  the  buoyant  form, 
from  which  the  pure  and  innocent  gladness  she  felt  on 
seeing  him  broke  forth. 

There  was  a  remarkable  trustingness,  if  I  may  so 
speak,  in  Madeline’s  disposition.  Thoughtful  and  grave 
as  she  was,  by  nature,  she  was  yet  ever  inclined  to  the 
more  sanguine  colorings  of  life  ;  she  never  turned  to  the 
future  with  fear  —  a  placid  sentiment  of  Hope  slept  at 
her  heart — she  was  one  who  surrendered  herself  with  a 
fond  and  implicit  faith  to  the  guidance  of  all  she  loved  ; 
and  to  the  chances  of  life.  It  was  a  sweet  indolence  of 
the  mind,  which  made  one  of  her  most  beautiful  traits 
of  character ;  there  is  something  so  unselfish  in  tempers 
reluctant  to  despond.  You  see  that  such  persons  are 
not  occupied  with  their  own  existence ;  they  are  not 
fretting  the  calm  of  the  present  life,  with  the  egotisms 
of  care  and  conjecture,  and  calculation  :  if  they  learn 
anxiety,  it  is  for  another ;  but  in  the  heart  of  that  other, 
now  entire  is  their  trust ! 

It  was  this  disposition  in  Madeline  which  perpetually 


280 


•  EUGENE  ARAM. 


charmed,  and  yet  perpetually  wrung,  the  soul  of  her 
wild  lover ;  and  as  she  now  delightedly  hung  upon  his 
arm,  uttering  her  joy  at  seeing  him  safe,  and  presently 
forgetting  that  there  ever  had  been  cause  for  alarm,  his 
heart  was  filled  with  the  most  gloomy  sense  of  horror  and 
desolation.  “What,”  thought  he,  “if  this  poor  uncon¬ 
scious  girl  could  dream  that  at  this  moment  I  am  girded 
with  peril,  from  which  I  see  no  ultimate  escape?  Delay 
it  as  I  will,  it  seems  as  if  the  blow  must  come  at  last. 
What,  if  she  could  think  how  fearful  is  my  interest  in 
these  outrages,  that  in  all  probability,  if  their  authors 
are  detected,  there  is  one  who  will  drag  me  into  their 
ruin  ;  that  I  am  given  over,  bound  and  blinded,  into  the 
hands  of  another ;  and  that  other,  a  man  steeled  to  mer¬ 
cy,  and  withheld  from  my  destruction  by  a  thread  —  a 
thread  that  a  blow  on  himself  would  snap.  Great  God ! 
wherever  I  turn  I  see  despair.  And  she  —  she  clings  to 
me  :  and  beholding  me,  thinks  the  whole  earth  is  filled 
with  hope !  ” 

While  these  thoughts  darkened  his  mind,  Madeline 
drew  him  onward  into  the  more  sequestered  walks  of  the 
garden,  to  show  him  some  flowers  she  had  transplanted. 
And  when  an  hour  afterwards  he  returned  to  the  hall,  so 
soothing  had  been  the  influence  of  her  looks  and  words 
upon  Aram,  that  if  he  had  not  forgotten  the  situation  in 
which  he  stood,  he  had  at  least  calmed  himself  to  regard 
with  a  steady  eye  the  chances  of  escape. 

The  meal  of  the  day  passed  as  cheerfully  as  usual,  and 
ft  hen  Aram  and  his  host  were  left  over  their  abstemious 


EUGENE  ARAM.  281 

potations,  the  former  proposed  a  walk  before  the  evening 
deepened.  Lester  readily  consented,  and  they  sauntered 
into  the  fields.  The  squire  soon  perceived  that  some¬ 
thing  was  on  Aram’s  mind,  of  which  he  felt  evident  em¬ 
barrassment  in  ridding  himself:  at  length  the  student  said, 
rather  abruptly  : 

“  My  dear  friend,  I  am  but  a  bad  beggar,  and  there¬ 
fore  let  me  get  over  my  request  as  expeditiously  as  possi¬ 
ble.  You  said  to  me  once  that  you  intended  bestowing 
'  some  dowry  upon  Madeline :  a  dowry  I  would  and 
could  willingly  dispense  with  ;  but  should  you  of  that 
sum  be  now  able  to  spare  me  some  portion  as  a  loan, — • 
should  you  have  some  three  hundred  pounds  with  which 
you  could  accommodate  me, —  ” 

“  Say  no  more,  Eugene,  say  no  more,”  interrupted  the 
squire, —  “you  can  have  double  that  amount.  Your 
preparations  for  your  approaching  marriage,  I  ought  to 
have  foreseen,  must  have  occasioned  you  some  inconveni¬ 
ence  ;  you  can  have  six  hundred  pounds  from  me  to-mor¬ 
row.” 

Aram’s  eyes  brightened.  “  It  is  too  much,  too  much, 
my  generous  friend,”  said  he;  “the  half  suffices  —  but, 
but,  a  debt  of  old  standing  presses  me  urgently,  and  to¬ 
morrow,  or  rather  Monday  morning,  is  the  time  fixed  for 
payment.” 

“Consider  it  arranged,”  said  Lester,  putting  his  hand 
on  Aram’s  arm,  and  then  leaning  on  it  gently,  he  added, 
“And  now  that  we  are  on  this'subject,  let  me  tell  you 
what  I  intended  as  a  gift  to  you,  and  my  dear  Madeline ; 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


28fe 

it  is  but  small,  but  my  estates  are  rigidly  entailed  on 
Walter,  and  of  poor  value  in  themselves,  and  it  is  half 
the  savings  of  many  years.” 

The  squire  then  named  a  sum,  which,  however  small  it 
may  seem  to  our  reader,  was  not  considered  a  despicable 
portion  for  the  daughter  of  a  small  country  squire  at  that 
day,  and  wras  in  reality,  a  generous  sacrifice  for  one 
whose  whole  income  was  scarcely,  at  the  most,  seven 
hundred  a  year.  The  sum  mentioned  doubled  that  now 
to  be  lent,  and  which  was  of  course  a  part  of  it ;  an 
equal  portion  was  reserved  for  Ellinor. 

“  And  to  tell  you  the  truth,”  said  the  squire,  “  you 
must  give  me  some  little  time  for  the  remainder  —  for 
not  thinking  some  months  ago  it  would  be  so  soon  want¬ 
ed,  I  laid  out  eighteen  hundred  pounds,  in  the  purchase 
of  Winclose  Farm,  six  of  which,  (the  remainder  oi  your 
share,)  I  can  pay  off  at  the  end  of  the  year ;  the  other 
twelve,  Ellinor’s  portion,  will  remain  on  mortgage  on  the 
farm  itself.  And  between  us,”  added  the  squire,  '*1  do 
hope  that  I  need  be  in  no  hurry  respecting  her,  dear  girl. 
When  Walter  returns,  I  trust  matters  may  be  arranged, 
in  a  manner,  and  through  a  channel,  that  would  gratify 
the  most  cherished  wish  of  my  heart.  I  am  convinced 
that  Ellinor  is  exactly  suited  to  him  ;  and,  unless  he 
should  lose  his  senses  for  some  one  else  in  the  course  of 
his  travels,  I  trust  that  he  will  not  be  long  returned  be 
fore  he  will  make  the  same  discovery.  I  think  of  writ¬ 
ing  to  him  very  shortly  after  your  marriage,  and  making 
him  promise,  at  all  events,  to  revisit  us  at  Christmas. 


EUGE  NE  ARAM. 


283 


Ah  !  Eugene,  we  shall  be  a  happy  party,  then,  I  trust. 
And  be  assured,  that  we  shall  beat  up  your  quarters,  and 
put  your  hospitality,  and  Madeline’s  housewifery,  to  the 
test.  ” 

Therewith  the  good  squire  ran  on  for  some  minutes  in 
the  wamth  of  his  heart,  dilating  on  the  fireside  prospects 
before  them,  and  rallying  the  student  on  those  secluded 
habits,  which  he  promised  him  he  should  no  longer  in¬ 
dulge  with  impunity. 

“But  it  is  growing  dark,”  said  he,  awakening  from  the 
theme  which  had  carried  him  away,  “and  by  this  time 
Peter  and  our  patrole  will  be  at  the  hall.  I  told  them 
to  look  up  in  the  evening,  in  order  to  appoint  their  sever¬ 
al  duties  and  stations  —  let  us  turn  back.  Indeed,  Aram, 
I  can  assure  you,  that  I,  for  my  own  part,  have  some 
strong  reasons  to  take  precautions  against  any  attack  ; 
for  besides  the  old  family  plate,  (though  that’s  not  much,) 
I  have, —  you  know  the  bureau  in  the  parlor  to  the  left 
of  the  hall  —  well,  I  have  in  that  bureau  three  hundred 
guineas,  which  I  have  not  as  yet  been  able  to  take  to  safe 
hands  at - ,  and  which,  by  the  way,  will  be  your’s  to¬ 

morrow.  So,  you  see,  it  would  be  no  light  misfortune  to 
me  to  be  robbed.” 

“  Hist !  ”  said  Aram,  stopping  short,  “  I  think  I  heard 
steps  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge.” 

The  squire  listened,  but  heard  nothing  ;  the  senses  of 
his  companion  were,  however,  remarkably  acute,  more 
especially  that  of  hearing. 

“  There  is  certainly  some  one  ;  nay,  I  catch  the  steps 


284 


E  UGENE  ARAM. 


of  two  persons,”  whispered  he  to  Lester.  “  Let  us  comer 
round  the  hedge  by  the  gap  below.” 

They  both  quickened  their  pace,  and  gaining  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge,  did  indeed  perceive  two  men  in  carters’ 
frocks,  strolling  on  towards  the  village. 

“  They  are  strangers  too,”  said  the  squire  suspiciously, 
“not  Urassdale  men.  Humph!  could  they  have  over¬ 
heard  us,  think  you  ?  ” 

“  If  men  whose  business  it  is  to  overhear  their  neigh¬ 
bors —  yes;  but  not  if  they  be  honest  men,”  answered 
Aram,  in  one  of  those  shrewd  remarks  which  he  often 
uttered,  and  which  seemed  almost  incompatible  with  the 
tenor  of  the  quiet  and  abstruse  pursuits  that  he  had 
adopted,  and  that  generally  deaden  the  mind  to  worldly 
wisdom. 

They  had  now  approached  the  strangers,  who,  however, 
appeared  mere  rustic  clowns,  and  who  pulled  off  their 
hats  with  the  wonted  obeisance  of  their  tribe. 

“  Hollo,  my  men,”  said  the  squire,  assuming  his  magis¬ 
terial  air,  for  the  mildest  squire  in  Christendom  can  play 
the  Bashaw,  when  he  remembers  he  is  a  Justice  of  the 
Peace.  “  Hollo  !  what  are  you  doing  here  this  time  of 
day  ?  you  are  not  after  any  good,  I  fear.” 

“We  ax  pardon,  your  honor,”  said  the  elder  clown,  in 
th  3  peculiar  accent  of  the  country,  “  but  we  be  come  from 
Gladsmuir  ;  and  be  going  to  work  at  Squire  Nixon’s  at 
Mow-hall,  on  Monday  ;  so  as  I  have  a  brother  living  or 
the  green  afore  the  squire’s,  we  be  a-going  to  sleep  there 
to-night  and  spend  the  Sunday,  your  honor.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


285 


Humph!  humph!  What’s  your  name  ?  ” 

“Joe  Wood,  your  honor,  and  this  here  chap  is,  Will 
Hutchings.” 

“Well,  well,  go  along  with  you,”  said  the  squire; 
“  And  mind  what  you  are  about.  I  should  not  be  sur¬ 
prised  if  you  snare  one  of  squire  Nixon’s  hares  by  the  way.” 

“  Oh,  well  and  indeed  your  honor,” — 

“  Go  along,  go  along,”  said  the  squire,  and  away  went 
tne  men. 

“  They  seem  honest  bumpkins  enough,”  observed  Lester. 

“It  would  have  pleased  me  better,”  said  Aram,  “had 
the  speaker  of  the  two  particularized  less ;  and  you  ob¬ 
served  that  he  seemed  eager  not  to  let  his  companion 
speak;  that  is  a  little  suspicious.” 

“  Shall  I  call  them  back  ?  ”  asked  the  squire. 

“Why  it  is  scarcely  worth  while,”  said  Aram;  “per¬ 
haps  I  over-refine.  And  now  I  look  again  at  them,  they 
seem  really  what  they  affect  to  be.  No,  it  is  useless  to 
molest  the  poor  wretches  any  more.  There  is  something, 
Lester,  humbling  to  human  pride  in  a  rustic’s  life.  It 
grates  against  the  heart  to  think  of  the  tone  in  which  we 
unconsciously  permit  ourselves  to  address  him.  We  see 
in  him  humanity  in  its  simple  state  ;  it  is  a  sad  thought 
to  feel  that  we  despise  it ;  that  all  we  respect  in  our  spe 
cies  is  that  which  has  been  created  by  art ;  the  gaudy 
dress,  the  glittering  equipage,  even  the  cultivated  intel 
lect ;  the  mere  naked  material  of  Nature,  we  eye  with 
indifference  or  trample  on  with  disdain.  Poor  child  of 
toil,  from  the  grey  dawn  to  the  setting  sun,  one  long 
task  !  —  no  idea  elicited  —  no  thought  awakened  beyond 

T 


286 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


‘hose  that  suffice  to  make  him  the  machine  of  others  — 
the  serf  of  the  hard  soil  !  And  then  too,  mark  how  we 
scowl  upon  his  scanty  holidays,  how  we  hedge  in  his 
mirth  with  laws,  and  turn  his  hilarity  into  crime  !  We 
make  the  whole  of  the  gay  world,  wherein  we  walk  and 
take  our  pleasure,  to  him  a  place  of  snares  and  perils. 
If  he  leave  his  labor  for  an  instant,  in  that  instant,  how 
many  temptations  spring  up  to  him  !  And  yet  we  have 
no  mercy  for  his  errors  ;  the  goal — the  transport-ship  — 
the  gallows ;  those  are  our  sole  lecture-books,  and  our 
only  methods  of  expostulation  —  ah,  fie  on  the  dispari¬ 
ties  of  the  world  !  They  cripple  the  heart,  they  blind 
the  sense,  they  concentrate  the  thousand  links  between 
man  and  man,  into  the  two  basest  of  earthly  ties  —  servil¬ 
ity  and  pride.  Methinks  the  devils  laugh  out  when  they 
hear  us  tell  the  boor  that  his  soul  is  as  glorious  and  eter¬ 
nal  as  our  own  ;  an^l  yet  when  in  the  grinding  drudgery 
of  his  life,  not  a  spark  of  that  soul  can  be  called  forth  ; 
when  it  sleeps,  walled  around  in  its  lumpish  clay,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave,  without  a  dream  to  stir  the  dead¬ 
ness  of  its  torpor.” 

“And  yet,  Aram,”  said  Lester,  “the  lords  of  science 
have  their  ills.  Exalt  the  soul  as  you  will,  you  cannot 
raise  it  above  pain.  Better,  perhaps,  to  let  it  sleep,  when 
in  waking  it  looks  only  upon  a  world  of  trial.” 

“You  say  well,  you  say  well,”  said  Aram  smiting  his 
heart,  “  and  I  suffered  a  foolish  sentiment  to  carry  m9 
beyond  the  sober  boundaries  of  our  daily  sense.” 


END  OE  THE  FIRST  VOLUME. 


EUGENE  ARAM 


VOL.  II. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


BOOK  THIRD, 

(CONTINUED.) 


CHAPTER  IY. 

/ 

MILITARY  PREPARATIONS. —  THE  COMMANDER  AND  HIS  MEN. 
—  ARAM  IS  PERSUADED  TO  PASS  THE  NIGHT  AT  THE 
MANOR-HOUSE. 


Falstaff.  “  B  d  my  Lieutenant  Peto  meet  me  at  the  town’s  end. 
*  *  *  *  *  I  pressed  me  none  but  such  toasts  and  butter,  with 
hearts  in  their  bellies  no  bigger  than  pins’  heads.” 

Henry  IV. 

They  had  scarcely  reached  the  manor-house,  before 
the  rain,  which  the  clouds  had  portended  throughout  the 
whole  day,  began  to  descend  in  torrents,  and  to  use  the 
strong  expression  of  the  Roman  poet  —  the  night  rushed 
down,  black  and  sudden,  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  new  watch  were  not  by  any  means  the  hardy  arid 
experienced  soldiery,  by  whom  the  rain  and  darkness  are 
unheeded.  They  looked  with  great  dismay  upon  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  the  night  in  which  their  campaign  was  to  commence 
1  *  (5) 


6 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  valorous  Peter,  who  had  sustained  his  own  courage  bj 
repeated  applications  to  a  little  bottle,  which  he  never 
failed  to  carry  about  him  in  all  the  more  bustling  and 
enterprising  occasions  of  life,  endeavored,  but  with  par¬ 
tial  success,  to  maintain  the  ardor  of  his  band.  Seated 
in  the  servants’  hall  of  the  manor-house,  in  a  large  arm¬ 
chair,  Jacobina  on  his  knee,  and  his  trusty  musket,  which, 
to  the  great  terror  of  the  womankind,  had  never  been 
uncocked  throughout  the  day,  still  grasped  in  his  right 
hand,  while  the  stock  was  grounded  on  the  floor ;  he 
mdulged  in  martial  harangues,  plentifully  interlarded 
with  plagiarisms  from  the  worshipful  translations  of 
Messrs.  Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  and  psalmodic  versions 
of  a  more  doubtful  authorship.  And  when  at  the  hour 
of  ten,  which  was  the  appointed  time,  he  led  his  war¬ 
like  force,  which  consisted  of  six  rustics,  armed  with 
sticks  of  incredible  thickness,  three  guns,  one  pistol,  a 
broadsword,  and  a  pitchfork,  (a  weapon  likely  to  be  more 
effectively  used  than  all  the  rest  put  together ;)  when  at 
the  hour  of  ten  he  led  them  up  to  the  room  above,  where 
they  were  to  be  passed  in  review  before  the  critical  eye 
of  the  squire,  with  Jacobina  leading  the  on-guard,  you 
could  not  fancy  a  prettier  picture  for  a  hero  in  a  little 
way,  than  mine  host  of  the  Spotted  Dog. 

His  hat  was  fastened  tight  on  his  brows  by  a  blue 
pocket-handkerchief ;  he  wore  a  spencer  of  a  light  brown 
drugget,  a  world  too  loose,  above  a  leather  jerkin  ;  his 
breeches  of  corduroy,  were  met  all  of  a  sudden  half-way 
np  the  thigh,  by  a  detachment  of  Hessians,  formerly  in 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


7 


the  service  of  the  corporal,  and  bought  some  time  since 
by  Peter  Dealtry  to  wear  when  employed  in  shooting 
snipes  for  the  squire,  to  whom  he  occasionally  performed 
the  office  of  game-keeper ;  suspended  round  his  wrist  by 
a  bit  of  black  ribbon,  was  his  constable’s  baton ;  he 
shouldered  his  musket  gallantly,  and  he  carried  his  per¬ 
son  as  erect  as  if  the  least  deflexion  from  its  perpendicu¬ 
larity  were  to  cost  him  his  life.  One  may  judge  of  the 
revolution  that  had  taken  place  in  the  village,  when  so 
peaceable  a  man  as  Peter  Dealtry  was  thus  metamor¬ 
phosed  into  a  commander-in-chief.  The  rest  of  the  regi¬ 
ment  hung  sheepishly  back  •  each  trying  to  get  as  near  to 
the  door,  and  as  far  from  the  ladies,  as  possible.  But 
Peter  having  made  up  his  mind,  that  a  hero  should  only 
look  straight  forward,  did  not  condescend  to  turn  round, 
to  perceive  the  irregularity  of  his  line.  Secure  in  his 
own  existence,  he  stood  truculently  forth,  facing  the 
squire,  and  prepared  to  receive  his  plaudits. 

Madeline  and  Aram  sat  apart  at  one  corner  of  the 
hearth,  and  Ellinor  leaned  over  the  chair  of  the  former ; 
the  mirth  that  she  struggled  to  suppress  from  being  audi¬ 
ble,  mantling  over  her  arch  face  and  laughing  eyes  ; 
while  the  squire,  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  turned 
round  on  his  easy  chair,  and  nodded  complacently  to  the 
little  corps,  and  the  great  commander. 

"We  are  all  ready  now,  your  honor,”  said  Peter,  in  a 
voice  that  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  his  body,  so  big  did 
it  sound,  “all  hot,  all  eager.” 


8 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Why  you  yourself  are  a  host,  Peter,”  said  Ellinor, 
with  affected  gravity  ;  “  your  sight  alone  would  frighten 
an  army  of  robbers  :  who  would  have  thought  you  could 
assume  so  military  an  air  ?  The  corporal  himself  was 
never  so  upright !  ” 

“ 1  have  practised  my  present  latitude  all  the  day, 
Miss,”  said  Peter,  proudly,  “  and  I  believe  I  may  now 
say  as  Mr.  Sternhold  says  or  sings,  in  the  twenty-sixth 
Psalm,  verse  twelfth, 

‘My  foot  is  stayed  for  all  essays, 

It  standeth  well  and  right, 

Wherefore  to  God  —  will  I  give  praise 
In  all  the  people’s  sight!’ 

Jacobina,  behave  yourself,  child.  I  don’t  think  your 
honor,  that  we  miss  the  corporal  so  much  as  I  fancied  at 
first,  for  we  all  does  very  well  without  him.” 

“Indeed  you  are  a  most  worthy  substitute,  Peter;  and 
now,  Nell,  just  reach  me  my  hat  and  cloak  ;  I  will  set 
you  at  your  posts  :  you  will  have  an  ugly  night  of  it.” 

“  Very  indeed,  your  honor,”  cried  all  the  army,  speak¬ 
ing  for  the  first  time. 

“Silence  —  order — discipline,”  said  Peter  gruffly. — 
“  March  !  ” 

But  instead  of  marching  across  the  hall,  the  recruits 
huddled  up  one  after  the  other,  like  a  flock  of  geese, 
whom  Jacobina  might  be  supposed  to  have  set  in  motion, 
and  each  scraping  to  the  ladies,  as  they  shuffled,  sneaked, 
bundled,  and  bustled  out  of  the  door. 

“We  are  well  guarded  now,  Madeline,”  said  Ellinor: 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


$ 


“  I  fancy  we  may  go  to  sleep  as  safely  as  if  there  were 
not  a  housebreaker  in  the  world.” 

“  Why,”  said  Madeline,  ‘‘let  us  trust  they  will  be  more 
efficient  than  they  seem,  though  I  cannot  persuade  myself 
that  we  shall  really  need  them.  One  might  almost  as 
well  conceive  a  tiger  in  our  arbor,  as  a  robber  in  Grass- 
dale.  But  dear,  dear  Eugene,  do  not  —  do  not  leave  us 
this  night;  Walter’s  room  is  ready  for  you,  and  if  it 
were  only  to  walk  across  that  valley  in  such  weather,  it 
would  be  cruel  to  leave  us.  Let  me  beseech  you  ;  come, 
you  cannot,  you  dare  not  refuse  me  such  a  favor.” 

Aram  pleaded  his  vow,  but  it  was  overruled  ;  Madeline 
proved  herself  a  most  exquisite  casuist  in  setting  it  aside. 
One  by  one  his  objections  were  broken  down  ;  and  how, 
as  he  gazed  into  those  eyes,  could  he  keep  any  resolution, 
that  Madeline  wished  him  to  break  ?  The  power  she 
possessed  over  him  seemed  exactly  in  proportion  to  his 
impregnability  to  every  one  else.  The  surface  on  which 
the  diamond  cuts  its  easy  way,  will  yield  to  no  more  igno¬ 
ble  instrument ;  it  is  easy  to  shatter  it,  but  by  only  one 
substance  can  it  be  impressed.  And  in  this  instance 
Aram  had  but  one  secret  and  strong  cause  to  prevent  his 
yielding  to  Madeline’s  wishes; — if  he  remained  at  the 
house  this  night,  how  could  he  well  avoid  a  similar  com¬ 
pliance  the  next  ?  And  on  the  next  was  his  interview 
with  Houseman.  This  reason  was  not,  however,  strong 
enough  to  enable  him  to  resist  Madeline’s  soft  entreaties ; 
he  trusted  to  the  time  to  furnish  him  with  excuses,  and 
fldien  Lester  returned,  Madeline  with  a  triumphant  ail 


10 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


informed  him  that  Aram  had  consented  to  be  their  guest 
for  the  night. 

“Your  influence  is  indeed  greater  than  mine,”  said 
Lester,  wringing  his  hat  as  the  delicate  fingers  of  Ellinor 
loosened  his  cloak;  “yet  one  can  scarcely  think  our 
friend  sacrifices  much  in  concession,  after  proving  the 
weather  without.  I  should  pity  our  poor  patrole  most 
exceedingly,  if  I  were  not  thoroughly  assured  that  within 
two  hours  every  one  of  them  will  have  quietly  slunk 
home  ;  and  even  Peter  himself,  when  he  has  exhausted 
his  bottle,  will  be  the  first  to  set  the  example.  However, 
I  have  stationed  two  of  the  men  near  our  house,  and  the 
rest  at  equal  distances  along  the  village.” 

“  Do  you  really  think  they  will  go  home,  sir  ?  ”  said 
Ellinor,  in  a  little  alarm ;  “  why  they  would  be  worse 
than  I  thought  them,  if  they  were  driven  to  bed  by  the 
rain.  I  knew  they  could  not  stand  a  pistol,  but  a  shower, 
however  hard,  I  did  imagine  would  scarcely  quench  their 
valor.” 

“Never  mind,  girl, ’s’  aid  Lester,  gaily  chucking  her 
under  the  chin,  “we  are  quite  strong  enough  now  to  re¬ 
sist  them.  You  see  Madeline  has  grown  as  brave  as  a 
lioness — Come,  girls,  come,  let’s  have  supper,  and  stir 
up  the  fire.  And,  Nell,  where  are  my  slippers  ?  ” 

And  thus  on  the  little  family  scene,  the  cheerful  wood 
fire  flickering  against  the  polished  wainscoi ;  the  supper 
table  arranged,  the  squire  drawing  his  oak  chair  towards 
it,  Ellinor  mixing  his  negus ;  and  Aram  and  Madeline, 
though  three  times  summoned  to  the  table,  and  having 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


11 


three  times  answered  to  the  summons,  still  lingered  by 
the  hearth  —  let  us  drop  the  curtain. 

We  have  only,  ere  we  close  our  chapter,  to  observe, 
that  when  Lester  conducted  Aram  to  his  chamber  he 
placed  in  his  hands  an  order  payable  at  the  county  town, 
for  three  hundred  pounds.  “  The  rest,”  he  said  in  a 
whisper,  “is  below,  where  I  mentioned ;  and  there  in  my 
secret  drawer  it  had  better  rest  till  the  morning.” 

The  good  squire  then,  putting  his  finger  to  h:s  lip, 
hurried  away,  to  avoid  the  thanks,  which,  indeed,  how¬ 
ever  he  might  feel  them,  Aram  was  no  dexterous  'dept 
in  expressing. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  SISTERS  ALONE.  —  THE  GOSSIP  OF  LOVE. —  AN  A*» 

—  AND  AN  EVENT. 


Juliet. —  My  true  love  is  grown  to  such  excess, 

I  cannot  sum  up  half  my  sum  of  wealth. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Eros. —  Oh,  a  man  in  arms; 

His  weapon  drawn,  too!  —  The  False  One. 

It  was  a  custom  with  the  two  sisters,  when  they  re 
paired  to  their  slumber  for  the  night,  to  sit  conversing, 
sometimes  even  for  hours,  before  they  finally  retired  to  bed. 
This  indeed  was  the  usual  time  for  their  little  confidences, 
and  their  mutual  dilations  over  those  hopes  and  plans  for 


12 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  future,  which  always  occupy  the  larger  share  of  the 
thoughts  and  conversation  of  the  young.  I  do  not  know 
anything  in  the  world  more  lovely  than  such  conference? 
between  two  beings  who  have  no  secrets  to  relate  but 
what  arise,  all  fresh,  from  the  springs  of  a  guiltless  heart, 
—  those  pure  and  beautiful  mysteries  of  an  unsullied  na¬ 
ture  which  warm  us  to  hear ;  and  we  think  with  a  sort 
of  wonder  when  we  feel  how  arid  experience  has  made 
ourselves,  that  so  much  of  the  dew  and  sparkle  of  exist¬ 
ence  still  linger  in  the  nooks  and  valleys,  which  are  as  yet 
virgin  of  the  sun  and  of  mankind. 

The  sisters  this  night  were  more  than  commonly  indif¬ 
ferent  to  sleep.  Madeline  sate  by  the  small  but  bright 
hearth  of  the  chamber,  in  her  night  dress,  and  Ellinor, 
who  was  much  prouder  of  her  sister’s  beauty  than  her 
own,  was  employed  in  knotting  up  the  long  and  lustrous 
hair  which  fell  in  rich  luxuriance  over  Madeline’s  throat 
and  shoulders. 

“  There  certainly  never  was  such  beautiful  hair  !  ”  said 
Ellinor,  admiringly;  “  and  let  me  see, —  yes, —  on  Thurs¬ 
day  fortnight  I  may  be  dressing  it,  perhaps,  for  the  last 
time  —  heigho  !  ” 

“  Don’t  flatter  yourself  that  you  are  so  near  the  end 
of  your  troublesome  duties,”  said  Madeline  with  her 
pretty  smile,  which  had  been  much  brighter  and  more 
frequent  of  late  than  it  was  formerly  wont  to  be,  so  that 
Lester  had  remarked  “  That  Madeline  really  appeared  to 
nave  become  the  lighter  and  gayer  of  the  two.” 

“You  will  often  come  to  stay  with  us  for  weexar 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


13 


together,  at  least  till  —  till  you  have  a  double  right  to  be 
mistress  here.  Ah  1  my  poor  hair, —  you  need  not  pull 
it  so  hard.” 

“  Be  quiet,  then,”  said  Ellinor,  half  laughing,  and 
wholly  blushing. 

“  Trust  me,  I  have  not  been  in  love  myself  without 
learning  its  signs  ;  and  I  venture  to  prophesy  that  within 
six  months  you  will  come  to  consult  me  whether  or  not, 
—  for  there  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of 
the  question, —  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  sacrifice 
your  own  wishes,  and  marry  Walter  Lester.  Ah!  — 
gently,  gently.  Nell  —  ” 

“  Promise  to  be  quiet.” 

“I  will  —  I  will ;  but  you  began  it.” 

As  Ellinor  now  finished  her  task,  and  kissed  her  sister’s 
forehead,  she  sighed  deeply. 

“Happy  Walter  !  ”  said  Madeline. 

“I  was  not  sighing  for  Walter,  but  for  you.” 

“  For  me  ?  —  impossible  !  I  cannot  imagine  any  part 
of.  my  future  life  that  can  cost  you  a  sigh.  Ah  1  that  I 
were  more  worthy  of  my  happiness.” 

“Well,  then,”  said  Ellinor,  “I  sighed  for  myself;  —  I 
sighed  to  think  we  should  so  soon  be  parted,  and  that 
the  continuance  of  your  society  would  then  depend  not 
on  our  mutual  love,  but  the  will  of  another.” 

“  What,  Ellinor,  and  can  you  suppose  that  Eugene, — 
my  Eugene, —  would  not  welcome  you  as  warmly  as  my¬ 
self?  Ah  !  you  misjudge  him  ;  I  know  you  have  not  yet 
II.  — 2 


14 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


perceived  how  tender  a  heart  lies  beneath  all  that  melan 
choly  and  reserve.” 

“  I  feel,  indeed,”  said  Ellinor,  warmly,  “  as  if  it  were 
impossible  that  one  whom  you  love  should  not  be  all  that 
is  good  and  noble  ;  yet  if  this  reserve  of  his  should 
increase,  as  is  at  least  possible,  with  increasing  years  ; 
if  our  society  should  become  again,  as  it  once  was,  dis¬ 
tasteful  to  him,  should  I  not  lose  you,  Madeline  ?  ” 

“  But  this  reserve  cannot  increase  :  do  you  not  perceive 
how  much  it  is  softened  already  ?  Ah  !  be  assured  that 
I  will  charm  it  away.” 

“  But  what  is  the  cause  of  the  melancholy  that  even 
now,  at  times,  evidently  preys  upon  him  ?  — has  he  never 
revealed  it  to  you  ?  ” 

“  It  is  merely  the  early  and  long  habit  of  solitude  and 
study,  Ellinor,”  replied  Madeline  ;  “  and  shall  I  own  to 
you  I  would  scarcely  wish  that  away ;  his  tenderness 
itself  seems  linked  with  his  melancholy.  It  is  like  a  sad 
but  gentle  music,  that  brings  tears  into  our  eyes,  but 
which  we  would  not  change  for  gayer  airs  for  the  world.” 

“Well,  I  must  own,”  said  Ellinor,  reluctantly,  “that  I 
no  longer  wonder  at  your  infatuation;  I  can  no  longer 
chide  you  as  I  once  did  ;  there  is,  assuredly,  something 
in  his  voice,  his  look,  which  irresistibly  sinks  into  the 
heart.  And  there  are  moments  when,  what  with  his  eyes 
and  forehead,  his  countenance  seems  more  beautiful,  more 
impressive,  than  any  I  ever  beheld.  Perhaps,  too,  for 
you,  it  is  better,  that  your  lover  should  be  no  longer  in 
the  first  flush  of  youth.  Your  nature  seems  to  require 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


15 


something  to  venerate,  as  well  as  to  love.  And  1  navs 
ever  observed  at  prayers,  that  you  seem  more  especially 
rapt  and  carried  beyond  yourself,  in  those  passages  which 
call  peculiarly  for  worship  and  adoration.” 

“Yes,  dearest,”  said  Madeline,  fervently,  “I  own  that 
Eugene  is  of  all  beings,  not  only  of  all  whom  I  ever 
knew,  but  of  whom  I  ever  dreamed,  or  imagined,  the  one 
that  I  am  most  fitted  to  love  and  to  appreciate.  His 
wisdom,  but  more  than  that,  the  lofty  tenor  of  his  mind, 
calls  forth  all  that  is  highest  and  best  in  my  own  nature. 
I  feel  exalted  when  I  listen  to  him  ;  — and  yet,  how  gen¬ 
tle,  with  all  that  nobleness  !  And  to  think  that  he  should 
descend  to  love  me,  and  so  to  love  me.  It  is  as  if  a  star 
were  to  leave  its  sphere  !  ” 

“Hark!  one  o’clock,”  said  Ellinor,  as  the  deep  voice 
of  the  clock  told  the  first  hour  of  morning.  “  Heavens ! 
how  much  louder  the  winds  rave  !  And  how  the  heavy 
sleet  drives  against  the  window  !  Our  poor  watch  with¬ 
out  !  but  you  may  be  sure  my  father  was  right,  and  they 
are  safe  at  home  by  this  time  ;  nor  is  it  likely,  I  should 
think,  that  even  robbers  would  be  abroad  in  such  wea¬ 
ther  !  ” 

“I  have  heard,”  said  Madeline,  “that  robbers  gener¬ 
ally  choose  these  dark,  stormy  nights  for  their  designs, 
but  I  confess  I  don’t  feel  much  alarm,  and  he  is  in  the 
house.  Draw  nearer  to  the  fire,  Ellinor  ;  is  it  not  plea¬ 
sant  to  see  how  serenely  it  burns,  while  the  storm  howls 
without  ?  It  is  like  my  Eugene’s  soul,  luminous  and  lone, 
amidst  the  roar  and  darkness  of  this  unquiet  world  !  ” 


4 


16 


EUGENE  ARaM. 


“  There  spoke  himself, r  said  Ellinor  smiling  to  per* 
ceive  how  invariably  women,  who  love,  imitate  the  tone 
of  the  beloved  one.  And  Madeline  felt  it,  and  smiled 
too 

“  Hist !  ”  said  Ellinor,  abruptly,  “  did  you  not  hear  a 
low,  grating  noise  below  ?  Ah  !  the  winds  now  prevent 
your  catching  the  sound;  but  hush,  hush  I  —  now  the 
wind  pauses, —  there  it  is  again  1  ” 

“Yes,  I  hear  it,”  said  Madeline,  turning  pale,  “'it 
seems  in  the  little  parlor ;  a  continued,  harsh,  but  very 
low,  noise.  Good  heavens  !  it  seems  at  the  window  be¬ 
low.” 

“  It  is  like  a  file,”  whispered  Ellinor  ;  “  perhaps - ” 

“You  are  right,”  said  Madeline,  suddenly  rising,  “it 
is  a  file,  and  at  the  bars  my  father  had  fixed  against  the 
window  yesterday.  Let  us  go  down  and  alarm  the  house.” 

“No,  no  ;  for  God’s  sake,  don’t  be  so  rash, ’’cried  Elli¬ 
nor,  losing  all  presence  of  mind :  “  hark !  the  sound 
ceases,  there  is  a  louder  noise  below, —  and  steps.  Let 
us  lock  the  door.” 

But  Madeline  was  of  that  fine  and  high  order  of  spirit 
which  rises  in  proportion  to  danger,  and  calming  her  sis¬ 
ter  as  well  as  she  could,  till  she  found  her  attempts  wholly 
ineffectual,  she  seized  the  light  with  a  steady  hand,  open¬ 
ed  the  door,  and  Ellinor  still  clinging  to  her,  passed  the 
landing-place,  and  hastened  to  her  father’s  room  ;  he 
slept  at  the  opposite  corner  of  the  staircase.  Aram’s 
chamber  was  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  house.  Before 
she  reached  the  door  of  Lester’s  apartment,  the  noise 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


17 


below  grew  loud  and  distinct  —  a  scuffle  —  voices  — « 
curses  —  and  now  —  the  sound  of  a  pistol  —  in  a  moment 
more  the  whole  house  was  stirring.  Lester  in  his  night 
robe,  his  broadsword  in  his  hand,  and  his  long  grey  hair 
floating  behind,  was  the  first  to  appear :  the  servants,  old 
and  young,  male  and  female,  now  came  thronging  simul¬ 
taneously  round ;  and  in  a  general  body,  Lester  several 
paces  at  their  head,  his  daughters  following  next  to  him, 
they  rushed  to  the  apartment  whence  the  noise,  now  sud¬ 
denly  stilled,  had  proceeded. 

The  window  was  opened  evidently  by  force  ;  an  instru¬ 
ment  like  a  wedge  was  fixed  in  the  bureau  containing 
Lester’s  money,  and  seemed  to  have  been  left  there,  as 
if  the  person  using  it  had  been  disturbed  before  the 
design  for  which  it  was  introduced  had  been  accomplish¬ 
ed,  and,  (the  only  evidence  of  life,)  Aram  stood,  dressed, 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  pistol  in  his  left  hand,  a 
sword  in  his  right ;  a  bludgeon  severed  in  two  lay  at  his 
feet,  and  on  the  floor  within  two  yards  of  him,  towards 
the  window,  drops  of  blood  yet  warm,  showed  that  the 
pistol  had  not  been  discharged  in  vain. 

“  And  is  it  you,  my  brave  friend,  that  I  have  to  thank 
for  our  safety  ?  ”  cried  Lester  in  great  emotion. 

“  You,  Eugene  ?  ”  repeated  Madeline,  sinking  on  his 
breast. 

“But  thanks  hereafter,”  continued  Lester;  “let  us 
now  to  the  pursuit,  —  perhaps  the  villain  may  have  • 
perished  beneath  your  bullet  ?  ” 

u  Ila  !  ”  muttered  Aram,  who  had  hitherto  seemed 
2  *  u 


18 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


unconscious  of  all  around  him  ;  so  fixed  had  been  his  eye, 
so  colorless  his  cheek,  so  motionless  his  posture.  “.Ha  1 
say  you  so  ?  —  think  you  I  have  slain  him  ?  —  no,  it  can¬ 
not  be  —  the  ball  did  not  slay,  I  saw  him  stagger;  but 
he  rallied  —  not  so  one  who  receives  a  mortal  wound  I  — 
ha  !  ha  !  — there  is  blood,  you  say,  that  is  true  ;  but  what 
then! — it  is  not  the  first  wound  that  kills,  you  must 
strike  again  —  pooh,  pooh,  what  is  a  little  blood  !  ” 

While  he  was  thus  muttering,  Lester  and  the  more 
active  of  the  servants  had  already  sallied  through  the 
window,  but  the  night  was  so  intensely  dark  that  they 
could  not  penetrate  a  step  beyond  them.  Lester  returned, 
therefore,  in  a  few  moments ;  and  met  Aram’s  dark  eye 
fixed  upon  him  with  an  unutterable  expression  of  anxiety. 

“You  have  found  no  one,”  said  he,  “no  dying  man? 

—  Ha  !  —  well  —  well  —  well !  they  must  both  have  es¬ 
caped  ;  the  night  must  favor  them.” 

“  Ho  you  fancy  the  villain  was  severely  wounded  ?  ” 

“Not  so  —  I  trust  not  so  ;  he  seemed  able  to - But 

stop  —  oh  God  1  — stop  !  —  your  foot  is  dabbling  in  blood 

—  blood  shed  by  me, —  off !  off*!  ” 

Lester  moved  aside  with  a  quick  abhorrence,  as  he  saw 
that  his  feet  were  indeed  smearing  the  blood  over  the 
polished  and  slippery  surface  of  the  oak  boards,  and  in 
moving  he  stumbled  against  a  dark  lantern  in  which  the 
light  still  burnt,  and  which  the  robbers  in  their  flight  had 
*  left. 

“Yes,”  said  Aram,  observing  it.  “It  was  by  that  — 
their  own  light  that  I  saw  them  —  saw  their  faces  —  and 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


19 


—  and  —  (bursting  into  a  loud,  wild  laugh)  they  were 
both  strangers !  ” 

“Ah,  I  thought  so,  I  knew  so,”  said  Lester,  plucking 
the  instrument  from  the  bureau.  “I  knew  they  could  be 
no  Grassdale  men.  What,  did  you  fancy  they  could  be  ? 
But  —  bless  me,  Madeline  —  what  ho  1  help  1  —  Aram,  she 
has  fainted  at  your  feet.” 

And  it  was  indeed  true  and  remarkable,  that  so  utter 
had  been  the  absorption  of  Aram’s  mind,  that  he  had 
been  insensible  not  only  to  the  entrance  of  Madeline,  but 
even  that  she  had  thrown  herself  on  his  breast.  And 
she,  overcome  by  her  feelings,  had  slid  to  the  ground 
from  that  momentary  resting-place,  in  a  swoon  which 
Lester,  in  the  general  tumult  and  confusion,  was  now  the 
first  to  perceive. 

At  this  exclamation,  at  the  sound  of  Madeline’s  name, 
the  blood  rushed  back  from  Aram’s  heart,  where  it  had 
gathered  icy  and  curdling  ;  and,  awakened  thoroughly 
and  at  once  to  himself,  he  knelt  down,  and  weaving  his 
arms  around  her,  supported  her  head  on  his  breast,  and 
called  upon  her  with  the  most  passionate  and  moving 
exclamations. 

But  when  the  faint  bloom  retinged  her  cheek,  and  her 
lips  stirred,  he  printed  a  long  kiss  on  that  cheek  —  on 
those  lips,  and  surrendered  his  post  to  Ellinor ;  who. 
blushingly  gathering  the  robe  over  the  beautiful  breast 
from  which  it  had  been  slightly  drawn,  now  entreated 
all,  save  the  women  of  the  house,  to  withdraw  till  her 
sister  was  restored. 


20 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Lester,  eager  to  near  what  his  guest  could  relate, 
therefore  took  Aram  to  his  own  apartment,  where  the 
particulars  were  briefly  told. 

Suspecting,  which  indeed  was  the  chief  reason  that 
excused  him  to  himself  in  yielding  to  Madeline’s  request, 
that  the  men  Lester  and  himself  had  encountered  in 
their  evening  walk,  might  be  other  than  they  seemed, 
and  that  they  might  have  well  overheard  Lester’s  com¬ 
munication,  as  to  the  sum  in  his  house,  and  the  place 
where  it  was  stored,  he  had  not  undressed  himself,  but 
kept  the  door  of  his  room  open  to  listen  if  any  thing 
stirred.  The  keen  sense  of  hearing,  which. we  have  be¬ 
fore  remarked  him  to  possess,  enabled  him  to  catch  the 
sound  of  the  file  at  the  bars,  even  before  Ellinor,  notwith¬ 
standing  the  distance  of  his  own  chamber  from  the  place, 
and  seizing  the  sword  which  had  been  left  in  his  room, 
(the  pistol  was  his  own)  he  descended  to  the  room  below. 
“  What  1  ”  said  Lester,  “  and  without  a  light  ?  ” 

“  The  darkness  is  familiar  to  me,”  said  Aram,  “  I  could 
walk  by  the  edge  of  a  precipice  in  the  darkest  night  with¬ 
out  one  false  step,  if  I  had  but  once  past  it  before.  I  did 
not  gain  the  room,  however,  till  the  window  had  been 
forced  ;  and  by  the  light  of  a  dark  lantern  which  one  of 
them  held,  I  perceived  two  men  standing  by  the  bureau 
* — the  rest  you  can  imagine  ;  my  victory  was  easy,  for  the 
bludgeon,  with  which  one  of  them  aimed  at  me,  gave 
way  at  once  to  the  edge  of  your  good  sword,  and  my  pis¬ 
tol  delivered  me  of  the  other. —  There  ends  the  history.” 
Lester  overwhelmed  him  with  thanks  and  praises,  bul 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


2\ 


Aram,  glad  to  escape  them,  hurried  away  to  see  after 
Madeline,  whom  he  now  met  on  the  landing-place,  lean¬ 
ing  on  Ellinor’s  arm,  and  still  pale. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  for  one  moment 
pressed  passionately  to  his  lips,  but  dropped  the  next, 
with  an  altered  and  chilled  air.  And  hastily  observing 
he  would  not  now  detain  her  from  a  rest  she  must  so 
much  require,  he  turned  away  and  descended  the  stairs. 
Some  of  the  servants  were  grouped  around  the  place  of 
encounter ;  he  entered  the  room,  and  again  started  at  the 
sight  of  the  blood. 

“Bring  water,”  said  he  fiercely:  “will  you  let  the 
stagnant  gore  ooze  and  rot  into  the  boards,  to  startle  the 
eye,  and  still  the  heart,  with  its  filthy  and  unutterable 
stain  —  water,  I  say  1  water  !  ” 

They  hurried  to  obey  him,  and  Lester  coming  into  the 
room  to  see  the  window  reclosed  by  the  help  of  boards 
&c.,  found  the  student  bending  over  the  servants  as  they 
performed  their  reluctant  task,  and  rating,  them  with  a 
raised  and  harsh  voice  for  the  hastiness  whh  which  he 
accused  them  of  seeking  to  slur  it  over. 


22 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A.RAM  ALONE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. - HIS  SOLILOQUT 

AND  PROJECT. - SCENE  BETWEEN  HIMSELF  AND  MADE¬ 

LINE. 


“ - Luce  non  grata  fruor 

Trepidante  semper  corde,  non  mortis  metu 


Sed 


Senec.  Octavia,  Act  I. 


The  two  men-servants  of  the  house  remained  up  the 
rest  of  the  night ;  but  it  was  not  till  the  morning  had 
progressed  far  beyond  the  usual  time  of  rising  in  the 
fresh  shades  of  Grassdale,  that  Madeline  and  Ellinor  be¬ 
came  visible  ;  even  Lester  left  his  bed  an  hour  later  than 
was  his  wont ;  and  knocking  at  Aram’s  door,  found  the 
student  was  already  abroad,  while  it  was  evident  that  his 
bed  had  not  been  pressed  during  the  whole  of  the  night. 
Lester  descended  into  the  garden,  and  was  there  met  by 
Peter  Dealtry,  and  a  detachment  of  the  band  ;  who,  as 
common  sense  and  Lester  had  predicted,  were  indeed,  at 
a  very  early  period  of  the  watch,  driven  to  their  respec¬ 
tive  homes.  They  were  now  seriously  concerned  for  their 
unmanliness,  which  they  passed  olf  as  well  as  they  could 
upon  their  conviction  “  that  nobody  at  Grassdale  could 
ever  really  be  robbed  ;  ”  and  promised  with  sincere  con¬ 
trition,  that  they  would  be  most  excellent  guards  for  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


23 


future.  Peter  was,  in  sooth,  singularly  chop-fallen  ;  and 
could  only  defend  himself  by  an  incoherent  mutter,  from 
which  the  squire  turned  somewhat  impatiently,  when  he 
heard,  louder  than  the  rest,  the  words  “seventy-seventh 
psalm,  seventeenth  verse, 

‘‘The  clouds  that  were  both  thick  and  black, 

Did  rain  full  plenteously.” 

Leaving  the  squire  to  the  edification  of  the  pious  host, 
let  us  follow  the  steps  of  Aram,  who  at  the  early  dawn 
had  quitted  his  sleepless  chamber,  and,  though  the  clouds 
at  that  time  still  poured  down  in  a  dull  and  heavy  sleet, 
wandered  away,  whither  he  neither  knew,  nor  heeded. 
He  was  now  hurrying,  with  unabated  speed,  though  with 
no  purposed  bourne  or  object,  over  the  chain  of  moun¬ 
tains  that  backed  the  green  and  lovely  valleys,  among 
which  his  home  was  cast. 

“  Yes  !  ”  said  he,  at  last  halting  abruptly,  with  a  despe¬ 
rate  resolution  stamped  on  his  countenance,  “  yes  !  I  will 
so  determine.  If,  after  this  interview,  I  feel  that  I  can¬ 
not  command  and  bind  Houseman’s  perpetual  secrecy,  I 
will  surrender  Madeline  at  once.  She  has  loved  me 
generously  and  trustingly.  I  will  not  link  her  life  with 
one  that  may  be  called  hence  in  any  hour,  and  to  so 

dread  an  account.  Neither  shall  the  grey  hairs  of  Les- 

« 

ter  be  brought  with  the  sorrow  of  my  shame  to  a  dis¬ 
honored  and  untimely  grave.  And  after  the  outrage  of 
last  night,  the  daring  outrage,  how  can  I  calculate  on  the 
safety  of  a  day  ?  Though  Houseman  was  not  present, 
though  I  can  scarce  believe  that  he  knew  or  at  least 


24 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


abetted  the  attack ;  yet  they  were  assuredly  of  his  gang : 
had  one  been  seized,  the  clue  might  have  traced  to  his 
detection  —  and  he  detected,  what  should  I  have  to 
dread  !  No,  Madeline  !  no  ;  not  while  this  sword  hangs 
over  me,  will  I  subject  thee  to  share  the  horror  of  my 
fate  !  ” 

This  resolution,  which  was  certainly  generous,  and  yet 
no  more  than  honest,  Aram  had  no  sooner  arrived  at, 
than  he  dismissed,  at  once,  by  one  of  those  efforts  which 
powerful  minds  can  command,  all  the  weak  and  vacilla¬ 
ting  thoughts  that  might  interfere  with  the  sternness  of 
his  determination.  He  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely, 
and  the  haggard  wanness  of  his  brow,  relaxed  at  least 
from  the  workings  that,  but  the  moment  before,  distorted 
its  wonted  serenity,  with  a  maniac  wildness. 

He  pursued  his  desultory  way  now  with  a  calmer 
step. 

“  What  a  night !  ”  said  he,  again  breaking  into  the  low 
murmer  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  hold  commune 
with  himself.  “  Had  Houseman  been  one  of  the  ruffians  ! 
a  shot  might  have  freed  me,  and  without  a  crime,  for 
ever !  And  till  the  light  flashed  on  their  brows,  1 
thought  the  smaller  man  bore  his  aspect.  Ha,  out, 
tempting  thought  1  out  on  thee  !  ”  he  cried  aloud,  and 
stamping  with  his  foot,  then  recalled  by  his  own  vehe¬ 
mence,  he  cast  a  hurried  and  jealous  glance  round  him, 
though  at  that  moment  his  step  was  on  the  very  heighi 
of  the  mountains,  where  not  even  the  solitary  shepherd, 
save  in  search  of  some  more  daring  straggler  of  the  flock, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


26 


ever  brushed  the  dew  from  the  cragged,  yet  fragrant 
soil.  “Yet,”  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice,  and  again  sinking 
into  the  sombre  depths  of  his  reverie,  “it  is  a  tempting, 
a  wondrously  tempting  thought.  And  it  struck  athwart 
me,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  when  this  hand  was  at  his 
throat  —  a  tighter  strain,  another  moment,  and  Eugene 
Aram  had  not  had  an  enemy,  a  witness  against  him  left  in  the 
world.  Ha  1  are  the  dead  no  foes  then  ?  Are  the  dead 
no  witnesses  ?  ”  Here  he  relapsed  into  utter  silence,  but 
his  gestures  continued  wild,  and  his  eyes  wandered  round, 
with  a  bloodshot  and  unquiet  glare.  “Enough,”  at 
length  he  said  calmly ;  and  with  the  manner  of  one  ‘  who 
has  rolled  a  stone  from  his  heart;  ’  *  “  enough  1  I  will 
not  so  sully  myself ;  unless  all  other  hope  of  self-preserva¬ 
tion  be  extinct.  And  why  despond  ?  the  plan  I  have 
thought  of  seems  well -laid,  wise,  consummate  at  all 
points.  Let  me  consider  —  forfeited  the  moment  he 
enters  England  —  not  given  till  he  has  left  it  —  paid 
periodically,  and  of  such  extent  as  to  supply  his  wants, 
preserve  him  from  crime,  and  forbid  the  possibility  of 
extorting  more  :  all  this  sounds  well ;  and  if  not  feasible 
at  last,  why  farewell  Madeline,  and  I  myself  leave  this 
land  for  ever.  Come  what  wdll  to  me  —  death  in  its  vilest 
shape  —  let  not  the  stroke  fall  on  that  breast.  And  if  it 
be,”  he  continued,  his  face  lighting  up,  “  if  it  be,  as  it 
may  be  yet,  that  I  can  chain  this  hell-hound,  why,  even 
then,  the  instant  that  Madeline  is  mine,  I  will  fly  these 
scenes  ;  I  will  seek  a  yet  obscurer  and  remoter  corner  of 


II—  3 


*  Eastern  saying. 


26 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  earth  :  I  will  choose  another  name  —  Fool !  why  did 
I  not  so  before  ?  But  matters  it  ?  What  is  writ  is  writ. 

/  Who  can  struggle  with  the  invisible  and  giant  hand,  that 
launched  the  world  itself  into  motion  ;  and  at  whose  pre¬ 
decree  we  hold  the  dark  boon  of  life  and  death  ?  ” 

It  wras  not  till  evening  that  Aram,  utterly  worn  out 
and  exhausted,  found  himself  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Lester’s  house.  The  sun  had  only  broken  forth  at  its 
setting;  and  it  now  glittered  from  its  western  pyre  over 
the  dripping  hedges,  and  spread  a  brief,  but  magic  glow 
along  the  rich  landscape  around ;  the  changing  woods 
clad  in  the  thousand  dyes  of  autumn  ;  the  scattered  and 
peaceful  cottages,  with  their  long  wreaths  of  smoke  curl¬ 
ing  upward,  and  the  grey  and  venerable  walls  of  the 
manor-house,  with  the  church  hard  by,  and  the  delicate 
spire,  which,  mixing  itself  with  heaven,  is  at  once  the 
most  touching  and  solemn  emblem  of  the  faith  to  which 
it  is  devoted.  It  was  a  sabbath  eve  ;  and  from  the  spot 
on  which  Aram  stood,  he  might  discern  many  a  rustic 
train  trooping  slowly  up  the  green  village  lane  towards 
the  church  ;  and  the  deep  bell  which  summoned  to  the 
last  service  of  the  day  now  swung  its  voice  far  over  the 
sun-lit  and  tranquil  scene. 

But  it  was  not  the  setting  sun,  nor  the  autumnal  land¬ 
scape,  nor  the  voice  of  the  holy  bell  that  now  arrested 
the  steps  of  Aram.  At  a  little  distance  before  him,  lean¬ 
ing  over  a  gate,  and  seemingly  waiting  till  the  ceasing 
of  the  beh  should  announce  the  time  to  enter  the  sacred 
mansion,  he  beheld  the  figure  of  Madeline  Lester.  Her 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


21 


head,  at  -the  moment,  was  averted  from  him,  as  if  she 
were  looking  after  Ellinor  and  her  father,  who  were  in 
the  church-yard  among  a  little  group  of  their  homely 
neighbors ;  and  he  was  half  in  doubt  whether  to  shun  her 
presence,  when  she  suddenly  turned  round,  and  seeing 
him,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy.  It  was  now  too  late 
for  avoidance  ;  and  calling  to  his  aid  that  mastery  over 
his  features,  which,  in  ordinary  times,  few  more  eminently 
possessed,  he  approached  his  beautiful  mistress  with  a 
smile  as  serene,  if  not  as  glowing,  as  her  own.  But  she 
had  already  opened  the  gate,  and  bounding  forward,  met 
him  half-way. 

“  Ah,  truant,  truant,”  said  she,  “  the  whole  day  absent, 
without  inquiry  or  farewell !  After  this,  when  shall  I 
believe  that  thou  really  lovest  me  ?  ” 

“But,”  continued  Madeline,  gazing  on  his  counte¬ 
nance,  which  bore  witness,  in  its  present  languor,  to  the 
fierce  emotions  which  had  lately  raged  within,  “  but,  hea¬ 
vens  !  dearest,  how  pale  you  look  !  you  are  fatigued  ; 
give  me  your  hand,  Eugene, —  it  is  parched  and  dry. 
Come  into  the  house  ;  — you  must  need  rest  and  refresh¬ 
ment.” 

“  I  am  better  here,  my  Madeline, —  the  air  and  the  sun 
revive  me  :  let  us  rest  by  the  stile  yonder.  But  you  were 
going  to  church  ?  and  the  bell  has  ceased.” 

“  I  could  attend,  I  fear,  little  to  the  prayers  now,”  said 
Madeline,  “  unless  you  feel  well  enough  and  will  come  to 
church  with  me.” 


28 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  To  church  !  ”  said  Aram,  with  a  half  shudder,  "  no , 
my  thoughts  are  in  no  mood  for  prayer.” 

“  Then  you  shall  give  your  thoughts  to  me ;  and  I,  in 
return,  will  pray  for  you  before  I  rest.” 

And  so  saying,  Madeline,  with  her  usual  innocent 
frankness  of  manner,  wound  her  arm  in  his,  and  they 
walked  onward  towards  the  stile  Aram  had  pointed  out 
It  was  a  little  rustic  stile,  with  chesnut-trees  hanging 
over  it  on  either  side.  It  stands  to  this  day,  and  I  have 
pleased  myself  with  finding  Walter  Lester’s  initials,  and 
Madeline’s  also,  with  the  date  of  the  year,  carved  in  half- 
worn  letters  on  the  wood,  probably  by  the  hand  of  the 
former. 

They  now  rested  at  this  spot.  All  around  them  was 
still  and  solitary ;  the  groups  of  peasants  had  entered 
the  church,  and  nothing  of  life,  save  the  cattle  grazing 
in  the  distant  fields,  or  the  thrush  starting  from  the  wet 
bushes,  was  visible.  The  winds  were  lulled  to  rest,  and, 
though  somewhat  of  the  chill  of  autumn  floated  on  the 
air,  it  only  bore  a  balm  to  the  harassed  brow  and  fevered 
veins  of  the  student;  and  Madeline!  —  she  felt  nothing 
but  his  presence.  It  was  exactly  what  we  picture  to 
ourselves  of  a  sabbath  eve,  unutterably  serene  and  soft, 
and  borrowing  from  the  very  melancholy  of  the  declining 
year  an  impressive,  yet  a  mild  solemnity. 

There  are  seasons,  often  in  the  most  dark  or  turbulent 
periods  of  our  life,  when,  why  we  know  not,  we  are  sud¬ 
denly  Called  from  ourselves  by  the  remembrances  of 
early  childhood  :  something  touches  the  electric  chain 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


29 


and,  lo  !  a  host  of  shadowy  and  sweet  recollections  steal 
upon  us.  The  wheel  rests,  the  oar  is  suspended,  we  are 
snatched  from  the  labor  and  travail  of  present  life  ;  we 
are  born  again,  and  live  anew.  As  the  secret  page  in 
which  the  characters  once  written  seem  for  ever  effaced, 
but  which,  if  breathed  upon,  gives  them  again  into  view ; 
so  the  memory  can  revive  the  images  invisible  for  years  : 
but  while  we  gaze,  the  breath  recedes  from  the  surface, 
and  all  one  moment  so  vivid,  with  the  next  moment  has 
become  once  more  a  blank  ! 

“It  is  singular,”  said  Aram,  “but  often  as  I  have 
paused  at  this  spot,  and  gazed  upon  the  landscape,  a 
likeness  to  the  scenes  of  my  childish  life,  which  it  now 
seems  to  me  to  present,  never  occurred  to  me  before. 
Yes,  yonder,  in  that  cottage,  with  the  sycamores  in  front, 
and  the  orchard  extending  behind,  till  its  boundary,  as 
we  now  stand,  seems  lost  among  the  woodland,  I  could 
fancy  that  I  looked  upon  ray  father’s  home.  The  clump 
of  trees  that  lies  yonder  to  the  right  could  cheat  me  rea¬ 
dily  to  the  belief  that  I  saw  the  little  grove  in  which, 
enamoured  with  the  first  passion  of  study,  I  was  wont  to 
pore  over  the  thrice-read  book,  through  the  long  summer 
days  ;  — a  boy, —  a  thoughtful  boy  ;  yet,  oh  !  how  happy  1 
What  worlds  appeared  then  to  me,  to  open  in  every  page  ! 
how  exhaustless  I  thought  the  treasures  and  the  hopes 
of  life  !  and  how  beautiful  on  the  mountain  tops  seemed 
to  me  the  steps  of  knowledge  !  I  did  not  dream  of  all 
that  the  musing  and  lonely  passion  that  I  nursed  was  to 
entail  upon  me.  There,  in  the  clefts  of  the  valley,  or  the 
3  * 


30 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ridge?  of  the  hill,  or  the  fragrant  course  of  the  stream, 
I  began  already  to  win  its  history  from  the  herb  or  flower ; 
I  saw  nothing,  that  I  did  not  long  to  unravel  its  secrets : 
all  that  the  earth  nourished  ministered  to  one  desire  :  — 
and  what  of  low  or  sordid  did  there  mingle  with  that  de¬ 
sire  ?  The  petty  avarice,  the  mean  ambition,  the  debas¬ 
ing  love,  even  the  heat,  the  anger,  the  fickleness,  the 
caprice  of  other  men,  did  they  allure  or  bow  down  my 
nature  from  its  steep  and  solitary  eyrie  ?  I  lived  but  to 
feed  my  mind  ;  wisdom  was  my  thirst,  my  dream,  my  ali¬ 
ment,  my  sole  fount  and  sustenance  of  life.  And  have  I 
not  sown  the  whirlwind  and  reaped  the  wind  ?  The  glory 
of  my  youth  is  gone,  my  veins  are  chilled,  my  frame  is 
bowed,  my  heart  is  gnawed  with  cares,  my  nerves  are  un¬ 
strung  as  a  loosened  bow :  and  what,  after  all,  is  my 
gain  ?  Oh,  God  !  what  is  my  gain  ?  ° 

“Eugene,  dear,  dear  Eugene!”  murmured  Madeline 
soothingly,  and  wrestling  with  her  tears,  “is  not  your 
gain  great  ?  is  it  no  triumph  that  you  stand,  while  yet 
young,  almost  alone  in  the  world,  for  success  in  ail  that 
you  have  attempted  ?  ” 

“And  what,”  exclaimed  Aram,  breaking  in  upon  her, 
“  what  is  this  world  which  we  ransack,  but  a  stupendous 
charnel-house  ?  Every  thing  that  we  deem  most  lovely,  ask 
its  origin  ?  —  Decay  !  When  we  rifle  nature,  and  collect 
wisdom,  are  we  not  like  the  hags  of  old,  culling  simples 
from  the  rank  grave,  and  extracting  sorceries  from  the 
rotting  bones  of  the  dead  ?  Every  thing  around  us  is 
fathered  by  corruption,  battened  by  corruption,  and  into 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


8J 


corruption  returns  at  last.  Corruption  is  at  once  tha 
womb  and  grave  of  nature,  and  the  very  beauty  on  which 
we  gaze  and  hang, —  the  cloud,  and  the  tree,  and  the 
swarming  waters,  —  all  are  one  vast  panorama  of  death  ! 
But  it  did  not  always  seem  to  me  thus ;  and  even  now  I 
speak  with  a  heated  pulse  and  a  dizzy  brain.  Come, 
Madeline,  let  us  change  the  theme.” 

And  dismissing  at  once  from  his  language,  and  per¬ 
haps,  as  he  proceeded,  also  from  his  mind,  all  of  its  for¬ 
mer  gloom,  except  such  as  might  shade,  but  not  embitter, 
the  natural  tenderness  of  remembrance,  Aram  now  related 
with  that  vividness  of  diction,  which,  though  we  feel  we 
can  very  inadequately  convey  its  effect,  characterized  his 
conversation,  and  gave  something  of  poetic  interest  to  all 
lie  uttered  ;  those  reminiscences  which  belong  to  child¬ 
hood,  and  which  all  of  us  take  delight  to  hear  from  the 
lips  of  any  one  we  love. 

It  was  while  on  this  theme  that  the  lights  which  the 
deepening  twilight  had  now  made  necessary,  became  visi¬ 
ble  in  the  church,  streaming  afar  through  its  large  oriel 
window,  and  brightening  the  dark  firs  that  overshadowed 
the  graves  around :  and  just  at  that  moment  the  organ, 
(a  gift  from  a  rich  rector,  and  the  boast  of  the  neighbor¬ 
ing  country,)  stole  upon  the  silence  with  its  swelling  and 
solemn  note.  There  was  something  in  the  strain  of  this 
sudden  music  that  was  so  kindred  with  the  holy  repose 
of  the  scene  and  which  chimed  so  exactly  to  the  chord 
that  now  vibrated  in  Aram’s  mind,  that  it  struck* upon 
him  at  once  with  an  irresistible  power.  He  paused  ab- 


32 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ruptly  “as  if  an  angel  spoke  !”  that  sound  so  peculiarly 
adapted  to  express  sacred  and  unearthly  emotion,  none 
who  have  ever  mourned  or  sinned  can  hear,  at  an  unlook¬ 
ed-for  moment,  without  a  certain  sentiment,  that  either 
subdues,  or  elevates,  or  awes.  But  he, —  he  was  a  boy 
once  more  !  —  he  was  again  in  the  village  church  of  his 
native  place  :  his  father,  with  his  silver  hair,  stood  again 
beside  him  !  there  was  his  mother,  pointing  to  him  the 
holy  verse  ;  there  the  half  arch,  half  reverent  face  of  his 
little  sister,  (she  died  young!) — there  the  upward  eye 
and  hushed  countenance  of  the  preacher  who  had  first 
raised  his  mind  to  knowledge,  and  supplied  its  food, — 
all,  all  lived,  moved,  breathed,  again  before  him, —  all,  as 
when  he  was  young  and  guiltless,  and  at  peace  ;  hope 
and  the  future  one  word  ! 

He  bowed  his  head  lower  and  lower ;  the  hardness  and 
hypocrisies  of  pride,  the  sense  of  danger  and  of  horror, 
that,  in  agitating,  still  supported,  the  mind  of  this  reso¬ 
lute  and  scheming  man,  at  once  forsook  him.  Madeline 
felt  his  tears  drop  fast  and  burning  on  her  hand,  and  the 
next  moment,  overcome  by  the  relief  it  afforded  to  a 
heart  preyed  upon  by  fiery  and  dread  secrets,  which  it 
could  not  reveal,  and  a  frame  exhausted  by  the  long  and 
extreme  tension  of  all  its  powers,  he  laid  his  head  upon 
that  faithful  bosom,  and  wept  aloud. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


33 


CHAPTER  VII. 

aram’s  secret  expedition. —  a  scene  worthy  the  act¬ 
ors. - ARAM’S  ADDRESS  AND  POWERS  OF  PERSUASION  OR 

HYPOCRISY. - THEIR  RESULT.  - A  FEARFUL  NIGHT.  — 

ARAM’S  SOLITARY  RIDE  HOMEWARD. —  WHOM  HE  MEETS 
BY  THE  WAY  AND  WHAT  HE  SEES. 


Macbeth. —  Now  o’er  the  one  half  world 

Nature  seems  dead. 
****** 

Donalbain. —  Our  separated  fortune 

Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer. 

****** 

Old  Man. —  Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange. 

Macbeth. 

“  And  you  must  really  go  to  **  *  *  *,  to  pay  our  im¬ 
portunate  creditor  this  very  evening.  Sunday  is  a  bad 
day  for  such  matters  ;  but  as  you  pay  him  by  an  order, 
it  does  not  much  signify  ;  and  I  can  well  understand  your 
impatience  to  feel  discharged  of  the  debt.  But  it  is 
already  late  ;  and  if  it  must  be  so,  you  had  better  start.” 

“  True,”  said  Aram  to  the  above  remark  of  Lester’s, 
as  the  two  stood  together  without  the  door :  “  but  do 
you  feel  quite  secure  and  guarded  against  any  renewed 
attack  ?  ” 

“  Why,  unless  they  bring  a  regiment,  yes  1  I  have  put 
a  body  of  our  patrole  on  a  service  where  they  can  scarce 


v 


34 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


be  inefficient,  viz.  I  have  stationed  them  in  the  house, 
instead  of  without ;  and  I  shall  myself  bear  them  com¬ 
pany  through  the  greater  part  of  the  night :  to-morrow 
I  shall  remove  all  that  I  possess  of  value  to  *  *  *  *  * 
(the  county  town)  including  those  unlucky  guineas,  which 
you  will  not  ease  me  of.” 

“  The  order  you  have  kindly  given  me  will  am  pi) 
satisfy  my  purpose,”  answered  Aram:  “And  so,  there 
has  been  no  clue  to  these  robberies  discovered  throughout 
the  day  ?  ” 

“  None  :  to-morrow,  the  magistrates  are  to  meet  at 
*  *  *  *,  and  concert  measures  :  it  is  absolutely  impossi¬ 
ble,  but  that  we  should  detect  the  villains  in  a  few  days, 
viz.  if  they  remain  in  these  parts.  I  hope  to  heaven  you 
will  not  meet  them  this  evening.” 

“  I  shall  go  well  armed,”  answered  Aram,  “  and  the 
horse  you  lend  me  is  fleet  and  strong.  And  now  fare¬ 
well  for  the  present ;  I  shall  probably  not  return  to 
Grassdale  this  night,  or  if  I  do,  it  will  be  at  so  late  an 
hour,  that  I  shall  seek  my  own  domicile  without  disturb¬ 
ing  you.” 

“No,  no  ;  you  had  better  remain  in  the  town,  and  not 
return  till  morning,”  said  the  squire  ;  “  and  now  let  us 
come  to  the  stables.” 

To  obviate  all  chance  of  suspicion  as  to  the  real  place 
of  his  destination,  Aram  deliberately  rode  to  the  town  he 
had  mentioned,  as  the  one  in  which  his  pretended  credi¬ 
tor  expected  him.  He  put  up  at  an  inn,  walked  forth  as 
if  to  visit  some  one  in  the  town,  returned,  remounted,  and 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Zb 


by  a  circuitous  route,  came  into  the  neighborhood  of  the 
place  in  which  he  was  to  meet  Houseman  :  then  turning 
into  a  long  and  dense  chain  of  wood,  he  fastened  his 
horse  to  a  tree,  and  looking  to  the  priming  of  his  pistols, 
which  he  carried  under  his  riding-cloak,  proceeded  to  the 
spot  on  foot. 

The  night  was  still,  and  not  wholly  dark ;  for  the 
clouds  lay  scattered,  though  dense,  and  suffered  many 
stars  to  gleam  through  the  heavy  air ;  the  moon  herself 
was  abroad,  but  on  her  decline,  and  looked  forth  with  a 
wan  and  saddened  aspect,  as  she  travelled  from  cloud  to 
cloud.  It  has  been  the  necessary  course  of  our  narrative, 
to  portray  Aram,  more  often  than  to  give  an  ‘exact  no¬ 
tion  of  his  character  we  could  have  altogether  wished,  in 
his  weaker  moments  ;  but  whenever  he  stood  in  the  actual 
presence  of  danger,  his  whole  soul  was  in  arms  to  cope 
with  it  worthily :  courage,  sagacity,  even  cunning,  all 
awakened  to  the  encounter  ;  and  the  mind  which  his  life 
had  so  austerely  cultivated  repaid  him  in  the  urgent  sea¬ 
son,  with  its  acute  address,  and  unswerving  hardihood. 
The  DeviPs  Crag,  as  it  was  popularly  called,  was  a  spot 
consecrated  by  many  a  wild  tradition,  which  would  not, 
perhaps,  be  wholly  out  of  character  with  the  dark  thread 
of  this  tale,  were  we  in  accordance  with  certain  of  our 
brethern,  who  seem  to  think  a  novel  like  a  bundle  of 
wood,  the  more  faggots  it  contains  the  greater  its  value, 
allowed  by  the  rapidity  of  our  narrative  to  relate  them. 

The  same  stream  which  lent  so  soft  an  attraction  to  the 
valleys  of  Grassdale,  here  assumed  a  different  character  ; 


36 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


oroad,  black,  and  rushing,  it  whirled  along  a  course, 
overhung  by  shagged  and  abrupt  banks.  On  the  oppo¬ 
site  side  to  that  by  which  Aram  now  pursued  his  oath, 
an  almost  perpendicular  mountain  was  covered  with 
gigantic  pine  and  fir,  that  might  have  reminded  a  Ger¬ 
man  wanderer  of  the  darkest  recesses  of  the  Hartz  ;  and 
seemed,  indeed,  no  unworthy  haunt  for  the  weird  hunts¬ 
man,  or  the  forest  fiend.  Over  this  wood  the  moon  now 
shimmered,  with  the  pale  and  feeble  light  we  have  al¬ 
ready  described ;  and  only  threw  into  a  more  sombre 
shade  the  motionless  and  gloomy  foliage.  Of  all  the 
offspring  of  the  forest,  the  Fir  bears,  perhaps,  the  most 
saddening  and  desolate  aspect.  Its  long  branches,  with¬ 
out  absolute  leaf  or  blossom  ;  its  dead,  dark,  eternal  hue, 
which  the  winter  seems  to  wither  not,  nor  the  spring  to 
revive,  have,  I  know  not  what  of  a  mystic  and  unnatural 
life.  Around  all  woodland,  there  is  that  horror  umbra- 
rum  which  becomes  more  remarkably  solemn  and  awing 
amidst  the  silence  and  depth  of  night ;  but  this  is  yet 
more  especially  the  characteristic  of  that  sullen  ever¬ 
green.  Perhaps,  too,  this  effect  is  increased  by  the  ste¬ 
rile  and  dreary  soil,  on  which,  when  in  groves,  it  is  gene¬ 
rally  found ;  and  its  very  hardness,  the  very  pertinacity 
with  which  it  draws  its  strange  unfluctuating  life,  from 
the  sternest  wastes  and  most  reluctant  strata,  enhance, 
unconsciously,  the  unwelcome  effect  it  is  calculated  to 
create  upon  the  mind.  At  this  place,  too,  the  waters 
that  dashed  beneath  gave  yet  additional  wildness  to  the 
rank  verdure  of  the  wood,  and  contributed,  by  their  rush 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


3  J 

mg  darkness  partially  broken  by  the  stars,  and  the  hoarse 
roar  of  their  chafed  course,  a  yet  more  grim  and  savage 
sublimity  to  the  scene. 

Winding  a  narrow  path,  (for  the  whole  country  was 
as  familiar  as  a  garden  to  his  footstep)  that  led  through 
the  tall  wet  herbage,  almost  along  the  perilous  brink  of 
the  stream,  Aram  was  now  aware,  by  the  increased  and 
deafening  sound  of  the  waters,  that  the  appointed  spot 
was  nearly  gained  ;  and  presently  the  glimmering  and 
imperfect  light  of  the  skies,  revealed  the  dim  shape  of  a 
gigantic  rock,  that  rose  abruptly  from  the  middle  of  the 
stream ;  and  which,  rude,  barren,  vast,  as  it  really 
was,  seemed  now,  by  the  uncertainty  of  night,  like  some 
monstrous  and  deformed  creature  of  the  waters,  suddenly 
emerging  from  their  vexed  and  dreary  depths.  This 
was  the  far-famed  Crag,  which  had  borrowed  from  tradi¬ 
tion  its  evil  and  ominous  name.  And  now,  the  stream, 
bending  round  with  a  broad  and  sudden  swoop,  showed 
at  a  little  distance,  ghostly  and  indistinct  through  the 
darkness,  the  mighty  waterfall,  whose  roar  had  been  his 
guide.  Only  in  one  streak  a-down  the  giant  cataract, 
the  stars  were  reflected  ;  and  this  long  train  of  broken 
light  glittered  preternaturally  forth  through  the  rugged 
crags  and  the  sombre  verdure,  that  wrapped  either  side 
of  the  waterfall  in  utter  and  rayless  gloom. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  forlorn  and  terrific  grandeur 
of  the  spot ;  the  roar  of  the  waters  supplied  to  the  ear 
what  the  night  forbade  to  the  eye.  Incessant  and  eter- 
nal  they  thundered  down  into  the  gulf  j  and  then  shoot- 

II.  —  4 


33 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ing  over  that  fearful  basin,  and  forming  another,  but  a 
mimic  fa, 11,  dashed  on,  till  they  were  opposed  by  the  sul¬ 
len  and  abrupt  crag  below  ;  and  besieging  its  base  with 
a  renewed  roar,  sent  their  foamy  and  angry  spray  half 
way  up  the  hoar  ascent. 

At  this  stern  and  dreary  spot,  well  suited  for  such  con¬ 
ferences  as  Aram  and  Houseman  alone  could  hold  ;  and 
which,  whatever  was  the  original  secret  that  linked  the 
two  men  thus  strangely,  seemed  of  necessity  to  partake 
of  a  desperate  and  lawless  character,  with  danger  for  its 
main  topic,  and  death  itself  for  its  coloring,  Aram  now 
paused,  and  with  an  eye  accustomed  to  the  darkness, 
looked  around  for  his  companion. 

He  did  not  wait  long :  from  the  profound  shadow  that 
girded  the  space  immediately  around  the  fall,  Houseman 
now  emerged  and  joined  the  student.  The  stunning  noise 
of  the  cataract  in  the  place  where  they  met,  forbade  any 
attempt  to  converse ;  and  they  walked  on  by  the  course 
of  the  stream,  to  gain  a  spot  less  in  reach  of  the  deafen¬ 
ing  shout  of  the  mountain  giant  as  he  rushed  with  his 
banded  waters,  upon  the  valley  like  a  foe. 

It  was  noticeable  that  as  they  proceeded,  Aram  walk¬ 
ed  on  with  an  unsuspicious  and  careless  demeanor ;  but 
Houseman  pointing  out  the  way  with  his  hand,  not  lead¬ 
ing  it,  kept  a  little  behind  Aram,  and  watched  his  mo¬ 
tions  with  a  vigilaut  and  wary  eye.  The  student,  who 
had  diverged  from  the  path  at  Houseman’s  direction,  now 
paused  at  a  place  where  the  matted  busnes  seemed  to 
forbid  any  farther  progress  j  and  said  for  the  first  time 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


3S 


breaking  the  silence,  “We  cannot  proceed  ;  shall  this  be 
the  place  of  our  conference  ?  ” 

“  No,”  said  Houseman,  “  we  had  better  pierce  the 
tushes.  I  know  the  way,  but  will  not  lead  it.” 

“  And  wherefore  ?  ” 

“  The  mark  of  your  gripe  is  still  on  my  throat,”  replied 
Houseman,  significantly  :  “  you  know  as  well  as  I,  that  it 
is  not  always  safe  to  have  a  friend  lagging  behind.” 

“Let  us  rest  here,  then,”  said  Aram,  calmly,  the  dark¬ 
ness  veiling  any  alteration  of  his  countenance,  which  his 
comrade’s  suspicion  might  have  created. 

“  Yet  it  were  much  better,”  said  Houseman,  doubtingly, 
“could  we  gain  the  cave  below.’ 

•  “  The  cave  I  ”  said  Aram,  starting,  as  if  the  word  had 
a  sound  of  fear. 

“  Ay,  ay  :  but  not  St.  Robert’s,”  said  Houseman  ;  and 
the  grin  of  his  teeth  was  visible  through  the  dullness  of 
the  shade.  “  But  come,  give  me  your  hand,  and  I  will 
venture  to  conduct  you  through  the  thicket: — that  is 
your  left  hand,”  observed  Houseman  with  a  sharp  and 
angry  suspicion  in  his  tone  ;  “give  me  the  right.” 

“As  you  will,”  said  Aram  in  a  subdued  yet  meaning 
voice,  that  seemed  to  come  from  his  heart ;  and  thrilled, 
for  an  instant,  to  the  bones  of  him  who  heard  it;  “as 
you  will ;  but  for  fourteen  years  I  have  not  given  this 
right  hand,  in  pledge  of  fellowship,  to  living  man  ;  you 
alone  deserve  the  courtesy  —  there  !  ” 

Houseman  hesitated,  before  he  took  the  hand  now  ex* 
tended  to  him 


40 


ED  GENE  ARAM. 


“  Pshaw  !  ”  said  he,  as  if  indignant  at  himself,  “  what ! 
scruples  at  a  shadow  !  Come,”  (grasping  the  hand) 
“  that’s  well  —  so,  so  ;  now  we  are  in  the  thicket  —  tread 
firm  —  this  way  —  hold,”  continued  Houseman,  under  his 
breath,  as  suspicion  anew  seemed  to  cross  him  ;  “  hold  ! 
we  can  see  each  other’s  face  not  even  dimly  now :  but  in 
this  hand,  my  right  is  free,  I  have  a  knife  that  has  done 
good  service  ere  this ;  and  if  I  feel  cause  to  suspect  that 
you  meditate  to  play  me  false,  I  bury  it  in  your  heart ; 
do  you  heed  me?” 

“  Fool !  ”  said  Aram,  scornfully,  “  I  should  dread  you 
dead  yet  more  than  living.” 

Houseman  made  no  answer ;  but  continued  to  grope 
on  through  the  path  in  the  thicket,  which  he  evidently 
knew  well ;  though  even  in  daylight,  so  thick  were  the 
trees,  and  so  artfully  had  their  boughs  been  left  to  cover 
the  track,  no  path  could  have  been  discovered  by  one 
unacquainted  with  the  clue. 

They  had  now  walked  on  for  some  minutes,  and  of  late 
their  steps  had  been  treading  a  rugged,  and  somewhat 
percipitous  descent :  all  this  while,  the  pulse  of  the  hand 
Houseman  held,  beat  with  as  steadfast  and  calm  a  throb, 
as  in  the  most  quiet  mood  of  learned  meditation  ;  al¬ 
though  Aram  could  not  but  be  conscious  that  a  mere 
accident,  a  slip  of  the  foot,  an  entanglement  in  the  bri¬ 
ars,  might  awaken  the  irritable  fears  of  his  ruffian  com¬ 
rade,  and  bring  the  knife  to  his  breast.  But  this  was  not 
that  form  of  death  that  could  shake  the  nerves  of  Aram  ; 
nor,  though  arming  his  whole  soul  to  ward  off  one  dai> 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


41 


ger,  was  he  well  sensible  of  another,  that  might  have 
seemed  equally  near  and  probable,  to  a  less  collected 
and  energetic  nature.  Houseman  now  halted,  again  put 
aside  the  boughs,  proceeded  a  few  steps,  and  by  a  cer¬ 
tain  dampness  and  oppression  in  the  air,  Aram  rightly 
conjectured  himself  in  the  cavern  Houseman  had  spoken 
$f. 

“We  are  landed  now,”  said  Houseman,  “but  wait,  I 
will  strike  a  light ;  I  do  not  love  darkness,  even  with 
another  sort  of  companion  than  the  one  I  have  now  the 
honor  to  entertain  !  ” 

*  In  a  few  moments  a  light  was  produced,  and  placed 
aloft  on  a  crag  in  the  cavern ;  but  the  ray  it  gave  was 
feeble  and  dull,  and  left  all  beyond  the  immediate  spot  in 
which  they  stood,  in  a  darkness  little  less  Cimmerian 
than  before. 

“’Fore  Gad,  it  is  cold,”  said  Houseman,  “but  I  have 
taken  care,  you  see,  to  provide  for  a  friend’s  comfort ;  ” 
so  saying,  he  approached  a  bundle  of  dry  sticks  and 
leaves,  piled  at  one  corner  of  the  cave,  applied  the  light 
to  the  fuel,  and  presently,  the  fire  rose  crackling,  break- 

# 

ing  into  a  thousand  sparks,  and  freeing  itself  gradually 
from  the  clouds  of  smoke  in  which  it  was  enveloped.  It 
now  mounted  into  a  ruddy  and  cheering  flame,  and  the 
warm  glow  played  picturesquely  upon  the  grey  sides  of 
the  cavern,  which  was  of  a  rugged  shape,  and  small 
dimensions,  and  cast  its  reddening  light  over  the  forms 
of  the  two  men. 

Houseman  stood  close  to  the  flame,  spreading  his 
4  * 


42 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


hands  over  it,  and  a  sort  of  grim  complacency  stealing 
along  features  singularly  ill-favored,  and  sinister  in  their 
expression,  as  he  felt  the  animal  luxury  of  the  warmth. 

Across  his  middle  was  a  broad  leathern  belt,  contain¬ 
ing  a  brace  of  large  horse-pistols,  and  the  knife,  or 
rather  dagger,  with  which  he  had  menaced  Aram,  an 
instrument  sharpened  on  both  sides,  and  nearly  a  foot  in 
length.  Altogether,  what  with  his  muscular  breadth  of 
figure,  his  hard  and  rugged  features,  his  weapons,  and  a 
certain  reckless,  bravo  air  which  indescribably  marked  his 
attitude  and  bearing,  it  was  not  well  possible  to  imagine 
a  fitter  habitant  for  that  grim  oave,  or  one  from  whom 
men  of  peace,  like  Eugene  Aram,  might  have  seemed  to 
derive  more  reasonable  cause  of  alarm. 

The  scholar  stood  at  a  little  distance,  waiting  till  his 
companion  was  entirely  prepared  for  the  conference,  and 
his  pale  and  lofty  features,  hushed  in  their  usual  deep, 
but  at  such  a  moment,  almost  preternatural  repose.  He 
stood  leaning  with  folded  arms  against  the  rude  wall ; 
the  light  reflected  upon  his  dark  garments,  with  the 
graceful  riding-cloak  of  the  day  half  falling  from  his 
shoulder,  and  revealing  also  the  pistols  in  his  belt,  and 
the  sword,  which,  though  commonly  worn  at  that  time,  by 
all  pretending  to  superiority  above  the  lower  and  trading 
orders,  Aram  usually  waived  as  a  distinction,  but  now 
carried  as  a  defence.  And  nothing  could  be  more  strik¬ 
ing,  than  the  contrast  between  the  ruffian  form  of  his 
companion,  and  the  delicate  and  chiselled  beauty  of  the 
student’s  features,  with  their  air  of  mournful  intelligence 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


43 


any  serene  command,  and  the  slender,  though  nervous 
symmetry  of  his  frame. 

“  Houseman,”  said  Aram,  now  advancing,  as  his  com¬ 
rade  turned  his  face  from  the  flame,  towards  him ;  “  be¬ 
fore  we  enter  on  the  main  subject  of  our  proposed  com¬ 
mune —  tell  me,  were  you  engaged  in  the  attempt  last 
night  upon  Lester’s  house  ?  ” 

‘‘By  the  Fiend,  no!”  answered  Houseman,  “nor  did 
I  learn  it  till  this  morning ;  it  was  unpremeditated  till 
within  a  few  hours  of  the  time,  by  the  two  fools  who 
alone  planned  it.  The  fact  is,  that  I  myself  and  the  greater 
part  of  our  little  band,  were  engaged  some  miles  off,  in 
the  western  part  of  the  county.  Two  —  our  general 
spies, —  had  been,  of  their  own  accord,  into  your  neighbor¬ 
hood,  to  reconnoitre.  They  marked  Lester’s  house  during 
the  day,  and  gathered  (as  I  can  say  by  experience  it  was 
easy  to  do)  from  unsuspected  inquiry  in  the  village,  for 
they  wore  a  clown’s  dress,  several  particulars  which  in¬ 
duced  them  to  think  it  contained  what  might  repay  the 
trouble  of  breaking  into  it.  And  walking  along  the 
fields,  they  overheard  the  good  master  of  the  house  tell 
one  of  his  neighbors  of  a  large  sum  at  home  ;  nay,  even 
describe  the  place  where  it  was  kept :  that  determined 
them  ;  — they  feared,  (as  the  old  man  indeed  observed,) 
that  the  sum  would  be  removed  the  next  day ;  they  had 
noted  the  house  sufficiently  to  profit  by  the  description 
given  :  they  resolved,  then,  of  themselves,  for  it  was  too 
late  to  reckon  on  our  assistance,  to  break  into  the  room 
in  which  the  money  was  kept  —  though  from  the  aroused 


44 


EUGENE  ARAM 


vigilance  of  the  frightened  hamlet,  and  the  force  within 
the  house,  they  resolved  to  attempt  no  farther  booty. 
They  reckoned  on  the  violence  of  the  storm,  and  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  to  prevent  their  being  heard  or 
seen  ;  they  were  mistaken  —  the  house  was  alarmed,  they 
were  no  sooner  in  the  luckless  room,  than - ” 

“  Well,  I  know  the  rest ;  was  the  one  wounded  danger¬ 
ously  hurt  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  he  will  recover,  he  will  recover ;  our  men  are  no 
chickens.  But  I  own  I  thought  it  natural  that  you 
might  suspect  me  of  sharing  in  the  attack ;  and  though, 
as  I  have  said  before,  I  do  not  love  you,  I  have  no  wish 
to  embroil  matters  so  far  as  an  outrage  on  the  house  of 
your  father-in-law  might  be  reasonably  expected  to  do  : 
—  at  all  events,  while  the  gate  to  an  amicable  compro¬ 
mise  between  us  is  still  open.” 

‘'I  am  satisfied  on  this  head,”  said  Aram,  “  and  I  can 
now  treat  with  you  in  a  spirit  of  less  distrustful  precau¬ 
tion  than  before.  I  tell  you,  Houseman,  that  the  terms 
are  no  longer  at  your  control ;  you  must  leave  this  part 
of  the  country,  and  that  forthwith,  or  you  inevitably 
perish.  The  whole  population  is  alarmed,  and  the  most 
vigilant  of  the  London  police  have  already  been  sent  for. 
Life  is  sweet  to  you,  as  to  us  all,  and  I  cannot  imagine 
you  so  mad,  as  to  incur,  not  the  risk,  but  the  certainty,  of 
losing  it.  You  can  no  longer,  therefore,  hold  the  threat 
of  your  presence  over  my  head.  Besides,  were  you  able 
to  do  so,  I  at  least  have  the  power,  which  you  seem  to 
have  forgotten,  of  freeing  myself  from  it.  Am  I  chained 


EOGENE  ARAM. 


45 


to  yonder  valleys  ?  have  I  not  the  facility  of  quitting 
them  at  any  moment  I  will  ?  of  seeking  a  hiding-place, 
which  might  baffle,  not  only  your  vigilance  to  discover 
me,  but  that  of  the  law  ?  True,  my  approaching  mar¬ 
riage  puts  some  clog  upon  my  wing,  but  you  know  that 
I,  of  all  men,  am  not  likely  to  be  the  slave  of  passion. 
And  what  ties  are  strong  enough  to  arrest  the  steps  of 
him  who  flies  from  a  fearful  death  ?  Am  I  using  sophis¬ 
try  here,  Houseman  ?  Have  I  not  reason  on  my  side  ?  ” 
“What  you  say  is  true  enough,”  said  Houseman  reluc¬ 
tantly  ;  “  I  do  not  gainsay  it.  But  I  know  you  have  not 
sought  me,  in  this  spot,  and  at  this  hour,  for  the  purpose 
of  denying  my  claims  :  the  desire  of  compromise  alone 
can  have  brought  you  hither.  ” 

“  You  speak  well,”  said  Aram,  preserving  the  admira¬ 
ble  coolness  of  his  manner  ;  and  continuing  the  deep  and 
sagacious  hypocrisy  by  which  he  sought  to  baffle  the 
dogged  covetousness  and  keen  sense  of  interest  with 
which  he  had  to  contend.  “  It  is  not  easy  for  either  of 
us  to  deceive  the  other.  We  are  men,  whose  perceptions 
a  life  of  danger  has  sharpened  upon  all  points ;  I  speak 
to  you  frankly,  for  disguise  is  unavailing.  Though  I  can 
fly  from  your  reach — though  I  can  desert  my  present 
home  and  my  intended  bride,  I  would  fain  think  I  have 
free  and  secure  choice  to  preserve  that  exact  path  and 
scene  of  life  which  I  have  chalked  out  for  myself :  I 
would  fain  be  rid  of  all  apprehension  from  you.  There 
are  two  ways  only  by  which  this  security  can  be  won  ; 
the  first  is  through  your  death  ;  —  nav,  start  not,  nor  put 


46 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


your  hand  on  your  pistol ;  you  have  not  now  cause  to 
fear  me.  Had  I  chosen  that  method  of  escape,  I  could 
have  effected  it  long  since  :  when,  months  ago,  you  slept 
under  my  roof, —  a y,  slept, —  what  should  have  hindered 
me  from  stabbing  you  during  the  slumber?  Two  nights 
since,  when  my  blood  was  up,  and  the  fury  upon  me, 
what  should  have  prevented  me  tightening  the  grasp  that 
you  so  resent,  and  laying  you  breathless  at  my  feet  ? 
Nay,  now,  though  you  keep  your  eye  fixed  on  my  mo¬ 
tions,  and  your  hand  upon  your  weapon,  you  would  be 
no  match  for  a  desperate  and  resolved  man,  who  might 
as  well  perish  in  conflict  with  you  as  by  the  protracted 
accomplishment  of  your  threats  Your  ball  might  fail 
—  (even  now  I  see  your  hand  trembles)  —  mine,  if  I  so 
will  it,  is  certain  death.  No,  Houseman,  it  would  be 
as  vain  for  your  eye  to  scan  the  dark  pool  into  whose 
breast  yon  cataract  casts  its  waters,  as  for  your  intellect 
to  pierce  the  depths  of  my  mind  and  motives.  Your 
murder,  though  in  self-defence,  would  lay  a  weight  upon 
my  soul,  which  would  sink  it  for  ever:  I  should  see,  in 
your  death,  new  chances  of  detection  spread  themselves 
before  me  :  the  terrors  of  the  dead  are  not  to  be  bought 
or  awed  into  silence ;  I  should  pass  from  one  peril  into 
another;  and  the  law’s  dread  vengeance  might  fall  upon 
me,  through  the  last  peril,  even  yet  more  surely  than 
through  the  first.  Be  composed,  then,  on  this  point ! 
From  my  hand,  unless  you  urge  it  madly  upon  yourself, 
you  are  wholly  safe.  Let  us  turn  to  my  second  method 
of  attaining  security.  It  lies,  not  in  your  momentary 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


41 

cessation  from  persecutions ;  not  in  your  absence  from 
this  spot  alone;  you  must  quit  the  country — you  must 
never  return  to  it  —  your  home  must  be  cast,  and  your 
very  grave  dug,  in  a  foreign  soil.  Are  you  prepared  for 
this  ?  If  not,  I  can  say  no  more ;  and  I  again  cast  my¬ 
self  passive  into  the  arms  of  fate.” 

“You  ask,”  said  Houseman,  whose  fears  were  allayed 
by  Aram’s  address,  though,  at  the  same  time,  his  disso¬ 
lute  and  desperate  nature  was  subdued  and  tamed  in 
spite  of  himself,  by  the  very  composure  of  the  loftier 
mind  with  which  it  was  brought  in  contact :  —  “  you 
ask,”  said  he,  “no  trifling  favor  of  a  man  —  to  desert  his 
country  for  ever;  but  I  am  no  dreamer,  that  I  should 
love  one  spot  better  than  another.  I  might,  perhaps, 
prefer  a  foreign  clime,  as  the  safer  and  the  freer  from  old 
recollections,  if  I  could  live  in  it  as  a  man  who  loves  the 
relish  of  life  should  do.  Show  me  the  advantages  I  am 
to  gain  by  exile,  and  farewell  to  the  pale  cliffs  of  England 
for  ever  !  ” 

“Your  demand  is  just,”  answered  Aram.  “Listen, 
then.  I  am  willing  to  coin  all  my  poor  wealth,  save 
alone  the  barest  pittance  wherewith  to  sustain  life ;  nay, 
more,  I  am  prepared  also  to  melt  down  the  whole  of  my 
possible  expectations  from  others,  into  the  form  of  an 
annuity  to  yourself.  But  mark,  it  will  be  taken  out  of 
my  hands,  so  that  you  can  have  no  power  over  me  to 
alter  the  conditions  with  which  it  will  be  saddled.  It 
will  be  so  vested  that  it  shall  commence  the  moment  you 
touch  a  foreign  clime  j  and  wholly  and  for  ever  cease  the 


% 


48 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


moment  yon  set  foot  on  any  part  of  English  ground  ;  or, 
mark  also,  at  the  moment  of  my  death.  I  snail  then 
know  that  no  further  hope  from  me  can  induce  you  to  risk 
this  income  ;  for,  as  I  shall  have  spent  my  all  in  attain¬ 
ing  it,  you  cannot  even  meditate  the  design  of  extorting 
more.  I  shall  know  that  you  will  not  menace  my  life ; 
for  my  death  would  be  the  destruction  of  your  fortunes. 
We  shall  live  thus  separate  and  secure  from  each  other  ; 
you  will  have  only  cause  to  hope  for  my  safety ;  and  I 
shall  have  no  reason  to  shudder  at  your  pursuits.  It  is 
true,  that  one  source  of  fear  might  exist  for  me  still  — • 
namely,  that  in  dying  you  should  enjoy  the  fruitless  ven¬ 
geance  of  criminating  me.  But  this  chance  I  must 
patiently  endure  ;  you,  if  older,  are  more  robust  and 
hardy  than  myself — your  life  will  probably  be  longer 
than  mine ;  and,  even  were  it  otherwise,  why  should  we 
destroy  one  another  ?  I  will  solemnly  swear  to  respect 
your  secret  at  my  death-bed ;  why  not  on  your  part,  I 
say  not  swear,  but  resolve,  to  respect  mine  ?  We  cannot 
love  one  another ;  but  why  hate  with  a  gratuitous  and 
demon  vengeance?  —  No,  Houseman,  however  circum¬ 
stances  may  have  darkened  or  steeled  your  heart,  it  is 
touched  with  humanity  yet:  you  will  owe  to  me  the 
bread  of  a  secure  and  easy  existence  —  you  will  feel  that 
I  have  stripped  myself,  even  to  penury,  to  purchase  the 
comforts  I  cheerfully  resign  to  you  —  you  will  remember 
that,  instead  of  the  sacrifices  enjoined  by  this  alternative, 
I  might  have  sought  only  to  counteract  your  threats  by 
attempting  a  life  that  you  strove  to  make  a  snare  and 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


49 


torture  to  my  own.  You  will  remember  this;  and  you 
will  not  grudge  me  the  austere  and  gloomy  solitude  in 
which  I  seek  to  forget,  or  the  one  solace  with  which  I, 
perhaps  vainly,  endeavor  to  cheer  my  passage  to  a  quiet 
grave.  No,  Houseman,  no  ;  dislike,  hate,  menace  me  as 
you  will,  I  still  feel  I  shall  have  no  cause  to  dread  the 
mere  wantonness  of  your  revenge.” 

These  words,  aided  by  a  tone  of  voice,  and  an  expres¬ 
sion  of  countenance  that  gave  them  perhaps  their  chief 
effect,  took  even  the  hardened  nature  of  Houseman  by 
surprise  :  he  was  affected  by  an  emotion  which  he  could 
not  have  believed  it  possible  the  man  who  till  then  had 
galled  him  by  the  humbling  sense  of  inferiority  could 
have  created.  He  extended  his  hand  to  Aram. 

“  By - ,”  he  exclaimed,  with  an  oath  which  we 

spare  the  reader;  “you  are  right!  you  have  made  me 
as  helpless  in  your  hands  as  an  infant.  I  accept  your 
offer  —  if  I  were  to  refuse  it,  I  should  be  driven  to  the 
same  courses  I  now  pursue.  But  look  you  ;  I  know  not 
what  may  be  the  amount  of  the  annuity  you  can  raise. 
I  shall  not,  however,  require  more  than  will  satisfy  my 
wants,  which,  if  not  so  scanty  as  your  own,  are  not  at  least 
very  extravagant  or  very  refined.  As  for  the  rest,  if 
there  be  any  surplus,  in  God’s  name  keep  it  for  yourself, 
and  rest  assured  that,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  shall 
be  molested  no  more.” 

“  No,  Houseman,”  said  Aram,  with  a  half  smile,  ''you 
shall  have  all  I  first  mentioned ;  that  is,  all  beyond  what 
nature  craves,  honorably  and  fully.  Man’s  best  resolu- 
11.  — 5 


w 


50 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


tions'  are  weak :  if  you  knew  I  possessed  aught  to  spare, 
a  fancied  want,  a  momentary  extravagance,  might  tempt 
you  to  demand  it.  Let  us  put  oursejves  beyond  the 
possible  reach  of  temptation.  But  do  not  flatter  your- 
self  by  the  hope  that  the  income  will  be  magnificent. 
My  own  annuity  is  but  trifling,  and  the  half  of  the  dowry 
I  expect  from  my  future  father-in-law  is  all  that  I  can  at 
present  obtain.  The  whole  of  that  dowry  is  insignificant 
as  a  sum.  But  if  this  does  not  suffice  for  you,  I  must 
beg  or  borrow  elsewhere.  ” 

“This,  after  all,  is  a  pleasanter  way  of  settling  busi¬ 
ness,”  said  Houseman,  “than  by  threats  and  anger. 
And  now  I  will  tell  you  exactly  the  sum  on  which,  if  I 
could  receive  it  yearly,  I  could  live  without  looking  be¬ 
yond  the  pale  of  the  law  for  more  —  on  which  I  could 
cheerfully  renounce  England,  and  commence  ‘the  honest 
man.’  But  then,  hark  you,  I  must  have  half  settled  on 
my  little  daughter.” 

“  What  !  have  you  a  child  ?  ”  said  Aram,  eagerly,  and 
well  pleased  to  find  an  additional  security  for  his  own 
safety. 

“Ay,  a  little  girl  —  my  only  one  —  in  her  eighth  year. 
She  lives  with  her  grandmother,  for  she  is  motherless ; 
and  that  girl  must  not  be  left  quite  destitute  should  I  be 
summoned  hence  before  my  time.  Some  twelve  years 
hence  —  as  poor  Jane  promises  to  be  pretty  —  she  may 
be  married  off  my  hands  *,  but  her  childhood  must  not  be 
exposed  to  the  chances  of  beggary  or  shame.”' 

“  Doubtless  not,  doubtless  not.  Who  shall  say  now 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


51 


that  we  ever  outlive  feeling  ?  ”  said  Aram.  “  Half  the 
annuity  shall  be  settled  upon  her,  should  she  survive 
you  :  but  on  the  same  condition,  ceasing  when  I  die,  or 
the  instant  of  your  return  to  England.  And  now,  name 
the  sum  that  you  deem  sufficing.” 

“  Why,”  said  Houseman,  counting  on  his  fingers,  and 
muttering,  “twenty  —  fifty  —  wine  and  the  creature  cheap 
abroad  —  humph  1  a  hundred  for  living,  and  half  as  much 
for  pleasure.  Come,  Aram,  one  hundred  and  fifty  gui¬ 
neas  per  annum,  English  money,  will  do  for  a  foreign  life 
—  you  see  I  am  easily  satisfied.” 

“Be  it  so,”  said  Aram  ;  “I  will  engage,  by  one  means 
or  another,  to  obtain  what  you  ask.  For  this  purpose  I 
shall  set  out  for  London  to-morrow  ;  I  will  not  lose  a 
moment  in  seeing  the  necessary  settlement  made  as  we 
have  specified.  But,  meanwhile,  you  must  engage  to 
leave  this  neighborhood,  and,  if  possible,  cause  your 
comrades  to  do  the  same  ;  although  you  will  not  hesitate, 
for  the  sake  of  your  own  safety,  immediately  to  separate 
from  them.” 

“Now  that  we  are  on  good  terms,”  replied  Houseman, 
“  I  will  not  scruple  to  oblige  you  in  these  particulars. 
My  comrades  intend  to  quit  the  country  before  to-mor¬ 
row  ;  nay,  half  are  already  gone :  by  daybreak  I  mysel. 
will  be  some  miles  hence,  and  separated  from  each  of 
them.  Let  us  meet  in  London  after  the  business  is  com¬ 
pleted,  and  there  conclude  our  last  interview  on  earth.” 

“  What  will  be  your  address  ?  ” 

“  In  Lambeth  there  is  a  narrow  alley  that  leads  to  the 


52 


EUGENE  ARAM 


water-side,  called  Peveril  Lane.  The  last  house  to  the 
right,  towards  the  river,  is  my  usual  lodging ;  a  safe 
resting-place  at  all  times,  and  for  all  men.” 

“  There  then  will  I  seek  you.  And  now,  Houseman, 
fare  you  well !  As  you  remember  your  word  to  me,  may 
life  flow  smooth  for  your  child.” 

“Eugene  Aram,”  said  Houseman,  “there  is  about  you 
something  against  which  the  fiercer  devil  within  me 
would  rise  in  vain.  I  have  heard  that  the  tiger  can  be 
awed  by  the  human  eye,  and  you  compel  me  into  submis¬ 
sion  by  a  spell  equally  unaccountable.  You  are  a  singu¬ 
lar  man,  and  it  seems  to  me  a  riddle  how  we  could  ever 
have  been  thus  connected ;  or  how  —  but  we  will  not 
rip  up  the  past,  it  is  an  ugly  sight,  and  the  fire  is  just 
out.  These  stories  do  not  do  for  the  dark.  But  to  re¬ 
turn  :  —  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  you  might 
depend  upon  me  now ;  better,  too,  an  arrangement  of 
this  sort,  than  if  I  had  a  larger  sum  in  hand  which  I 
might  be  tempted  to  fling  away,  and,  in  looking  for  more, 
run  my  neck  into  a  halter,  and  leave  poor  Jane  upon 
charity.  But  come,  it  is  almost  dark  again,  and  no 
doubt  you  wish  to  be  stirring  :  stay,  I  will  lead  you  back, 
and  put  you  on  the  right  track,  lest  you  stumble  on  my 
Mends.”  * 

1  Is  this  cavern  one  of  their  haunts  ?  ”  said  Aram. 

“  Sometimes ;  but  they  sleep  the  other  side  of  The 
Devil’s  Crag  to-night.  Nothing  like  a  change  of  quar¬ 
ters  for  longevity  —  eh?” 

“  And  they  easily  spare  you  ?  ” 


-  * 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


53 


a  Yes,  if  it  be  only  on  rare  occasions,  and  on  the  plea 
of  family  business.  Now  then,  your  hand,  as  before. 
’Sdeath  !  how  it  rains  1  —  lightning  too  !  —  I  could  look 
with  less  fear  on  a  naked  sword  than  those  red,  forked, 
blinding  flashes. —  Hark  !  thunder  !  *’ 

The  night  had  now,  indeed,  suddenly  changed  its  as¬ 
pect ;  the  rain  descended  in  torrents,  even  more  impetu¬ 
ously  than  on  the  former  night,  while  the  thunder  burst 
over  their  very  heads,  as  they  wound  upward  through  the 
brake.  With  every  instant  the  lightning,  darting  through 
the  riven  chasm  of  the  blackness  that  seemed  suspended 
as  in  a  solid  substance  above,  brightened  the  whole  hea¬ 
ven  into  one  livid  and  terrific  flame,  and  showed  to  the 
two  men  the  faces  of  each  other,  rendered  deathlike  and 
ghastly  by  the  glare.  Houseman  was  evidently  affected 
by  the  fear  that  sometimes  seizes  even  the  sturdiest  crimi¬ 
nals,  when  exposed  to  those  more  fearful  phenomena  of 
the  heavens,  which  seem  to  humble  into  nothing  the 
power  and  the  wrath  of  man.  His  teeth  chattered,  and 
he  muttered  broken  words  about  the  peril  of  wandering 
near  trees  when  the  lightning  was  of  that  forked  charac¬ 
ter,  quickening  his  pace  at  every  sentence  and  sometimes 
interrupting  himself  with  an  ejaculation,  half  oath,  half 
prayer,  or  a  congratulation  that  the  rain  at  least  dimi¬ 
nished  the  danger.  They  soon  cleared  the  thicket,  and  a 
few  minutes  brought  them  once  more  to  the  banks  of  the 
stream,  and  the  increased  roar  of  the  cataract.  No 
earthly  scene,  perhaps,  could  surpass  the  appalling  sub¬ 
limity  of  that  which  they  beheld;  —  every  instant  the 
5* 


54 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


lightning,  which  became  more  and  more  frequent,  con¬ 
verting  the  black  waters  into  billows  of  living  fire,  or 
wreathing  itself  into  lurid  spires  around  the  huge  crag 
that  now  rose  in  sight ;  and  again,  as  the  thunder  rolled 
onward,  darting  its  vain  fury  upon  the  rushing  cataract 
and  the  tortured  breast  of  the  gulf  that  raved  below. 
And  the  sounds  that  filled  the  air  were  even  more  fraught 
with  terror  and  menace  than  the  scene; — the  waving, 
the  groans,  the  crash  of  the  pines  on  the  hill,  the  impetu¬ 
ous  force  of  the  rain  upon  the  whirling  river,  and  the 
everlasting  roar  of  the  cataract,  answered  anon  by  the 
yet  more  awful  voice  that  burst  above  it  from  the  clouds. 

They  halted  while  yet  sufficiently  distant  from  the 
cataract  to  be  heard  by  each  other.  “  My  path,”  said 
Aram,  as  the  lightning  now  paused  upon  the  scene,  and 
seemed  literally  to  wrap  in  a  lurid  shroud  the  dark  figure 
of  the  student,  as  he  stood,  with  his  hand  calmly  raised, 
and  his  cheek  pale,  but  dauntless  and  composed,-—  “  my 
path  now  lies  yonder :  in  a  week  we  shall  meet  again.” 

“By  the  fiend,”  said  Houseman,  shuddering,  “I  would 
not,  for  a  full  hundred,  ride  alone  through  the  moor  you 
will  pass  1  There  stands  a  gibbet  by  the  road,  on  which 
a  parricide  was  hanged  in  chains.  Pray  Heaven  this 
night  be  no  omen  of  the  success  of  our  present  compact !  ” 

“  A  steady  heart,  Houseman,”  answered  Aram,  strik¬ 
ing  into  the  separate  path,  “is  its  own  omen.” 

The  student  soon  gained  the  spot  in  which  he  had  left 
his  horse ;  the  animal  had  not  attempted  to  break  the 
oridle,  but  stood  trembling  from  limb  to  limb,  and  testi- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


55 


fied  by  a  quick  short  neigh  the  satisfaction  with  which  it 
hailed  the  approach  of  its  master,  and  found  itself  no 
longer  alone. 

Aram  remounted,  and  hastened  once  more  into  the 
main  road.  He  scarcely  felt  the  rain,  though  the  fierce 
wind  drove  it  right  against  his  path  ;  he  scarcely  marked 
the  lightning,  shough,  at  times,  it  seemed  to  dart  its 
arrows  on  his  very  form :  his  heart  was  absorbed  in  the 
success  of  his  schemes. 

“  Let  the  storm  without  howl  on,”  thought  he,  “  that 
Within  hath  a  respite  at  last.  Amidst  the  winds  and 
rains  I  can  breathe  more  freely  than  I  have  done  on  the 
smoothest  summer  day.  By  the  charm  of  a  deeper  mind 
and  a  subtler  tongue,  I  have  conquered  this  desperate 
foe  ;  I  have  silenced  this  inveterate  spy  :  and,  Heaven  be 
praised,  he  too  has  human  ties ;  and  by  those  ties  I  hold 
him!  How,  then,  I  hasten  to  London  —  I  arrange  this 
annuity  —  see  that  the  law  tightens  every  cord  of  the 
compact ;  and  when  all  is  done,  and  this  dangerous  man 
fairly  departed  on  his  exile,  I  return  to  Madeline,  and 
devote  to  her  a  life  no  longer  the  vassal  of  accident  and 
the  hour.  But  I  have  been  taught  caution.  Secure  as 
my  own  prudence  may  have  made  me  from  farther  appre¬ 
hension  of  Houseman,  I  will  yet  place  myself  wholly  be- 
yond  his  power :  I  will  still  consummate  my  former  pur¬ 
pose,  adopt  a  new  name,  and  seek  a  new  retreat :  Made¬ 
line  may  not  know  the  real  cause  ;  but  this  brain  is  not 
barren  of  excuse.  Ah  !  ”  as  drawing  his  cloak  closer 
round  him,  he  felt  the  purse  hid  within  his  breast  which 


56 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


contained  the  order  he  had  obtained  from  Lester, —  “  ah  I 
this  will  now  add  its  quota  to  purchase,  not  a  moment¬ 
ary  relief,  but  a  stipend  of  perpetual  silence.  I  have 
passed  through  the  ordeal  easier  than  I  had  hoped  for. 
Had  the  devil  at  his  heart  been  more  difficult  to  lay,  so 
necessary  is  his  absence,  that  I  must  have  purchased  it 
at  any  cost.  Courage,  Eugene  Aram  !  thy  mind,  for 
which  thou  hast  lived,  and  for  which  thou  hast  hazarded 
thy  soul  —  if  soul  and  mind  be  distinct  from  each  other 
—  thy  mind  can  support  thee  yet  through  every  peril: 
not  till  thou  art  stricken  into  idiotcy,  shalt  thou  behold 
thyself  defenceless.  How  cheerfully,”  muttered  he,  after 
a  momentary  pause, —  “how  cheerfully,  for  safety,  and 
to  breathe  with  a  quiet  heart  the  air  of  Madeline’s  pres¬ 
ence,  shall  I  rid  myself  of  all  save  enough  to  defy  want. 
And  want  can  never  now  come  to  me,  as  of  old.  He 
who  knows  the  sources  of  every  science  from  which 
wealth  is  wrought,  holds  even  wealth  at  his  will.” 

Breaking  at  every  interval  into  these  soliloquies,  Aram 
continued  to  breast  the  storm  until  he  had  won  half  his 
journey,  and  had  come  upon  a  long  and  bleak  moor, 
which  was  the  entrance  to  that  beautiful  line  of  country 
in  which  the  valleys  around  Grassdale  were  embosomed  : 
faster  and  faster  came  the  rain  ;  and  though  the  thunder¬ 
clouds  were  now  behind,  they  yet  followed  loweringly,  in 
their  black  array,  the  path  of  the  lonely  horseman. 

But  now  he  heard  the  sounds  of  hoofs  making  towards 
him  ;  he  drew  his  horse  on  one  side  of  the  road,  and  at 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


57 


that  instant,  a  broad  flash  of  lightning  illumining  the 
space  around,  he  beheld  four  horsemen  speeding  along 
at  a  rapid  gallop :  they  were  armed,  and  conversing 
loudly  —  their  oaths  were  heard  jarringly  and  distinctly 
amidst  all  the  more  solemn  and  terrific  sounds  of  the 
night.  They  came  on,  sweeping  by  the  student,  whose 
hand  was  on  his  pistol,  for  he  recognized  in  one  of  the 
riders  the  man  who  had  escaped  unwounded  from  Les¬ 
ter’s  house.  He  and  his  comrades  were  evidently,  then, 
Houseman’s  desperate  associates;  and  they,  too,  though 
they  were  borne  too  rapidly  by  Aram  to  be  able  to  rein 
in  their  horses  on  the  spot,  had  seen  the  solitary  travel¬ 
ler,  and  already  wheeled  round,  and  called  upon  him  to 
halt ! 

The  lightning  was  again  gone,  and  the  darkness 
snatched  the  robbers,  and  their  intended  victim,  from  the 
sight  of  each  other.  But  Aram  had  not  lost  a  moment; 
fast  fled  his  horse  across  the  moor,  and  when,  with  the 
next  flash,  he  looked  back,  he  saw  the  ruffians,  unwilling 
even  for  booty  to  encounter  the  horrors  of  the  night,  had 
followed  him  but  a  few  paces,  and  again  turned  round ; 
still  he  dashed  on,  and  had  now  nearly  passed  the  moor ; 
the  thunder  rolled  fainter  and  fainter  from  behind,  and 
the  lightning  only  broke  forth  at  prolonged  intervals, 
when  suddenly,  after  a  pause  of  unusual  duration,  it 
brought  the  whole  scene  into  a  light,  if  less  intolerable, 
even  more  livid  than  before.  The  horse  that  hitherto 
6ped  on  without  start  or  stumble,  now  recoiled  in  abrupt 


58 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


affright ;  and  the  horseman,  looking  up  at  the  cause, 
beheld  the  gibbet,  of  which  Houseman  had  spoken,  im¬ 
mediately  fronting  his  path,  with  its  ghastly  tenant  wav¬ 
ing  to  and  fro,  as  the  winds  rattled  through  the  parched 
and  arid  bones ;  and  the  inexpressible  grin  of  the  skull 
fixed,  as  in  mockery,  upon  his  countenance. 


BOOK  FOURTH 


’H  Kvnpis  oi  iravSTipos'  iXacr^so  rrjv  Qebv  ehr&p 
Ovpaviav'' - 

*  *  *  *  * 
HPAHINO'H.  Qdpasj  Zu)rv  pi'cov,  y\vKzpbv  tikos,  oh  Myw  Arr 
ropra.  A laOavtTai  rb  fipicpos,  val  rdv  n6rviav' 

6E0KP. 


The  Venus,  not  the  vulgar!  Propitiate  the  divinity,  terming  her 
the  Uranian. — 

***** 

Praxinoe.  Be  of  good  cheer,  Zopyrion,  dear  child ;  X  do  not  speak 
of  thy  father. 

Gor&o.  The  boy  comprehends,  by  Proserpine. 


't  I 


' 

. 

+■  , 

'■ ,i  iff*}  !«•;.  '■/  4  *!  .*  •  »' 


BOOK  FOURTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

♦ 

IN  WHICH  WE  RETURN  TO  WALTER. —  HIS  DEBT  OF  GRATI¬ 
TUDE  TO  MR.  PERTINAX  FILLGRAYE. —  THE  CORPORAL’S 

ADVICE,  AND  THE  CORPORAL’S  VICTORY. 

•  1 


“Let  a  physician  be  ever  so  excellent,  there  will  be  those  that 
censure  him.”  —  Gil  Bias. 

We  left  Walter  in  a  situation  of  that  critical  nature, 
that  it  would  be  inhuman  to  delay  our  return  to  him  any 
longer.  The  blow  by  which  he  had  been  felled  stunned 
him  for  an  instant;  but  his  frame  was  of  no  common 
strength  and  hardihood,  and  the  imminent  peril  in  which 
he  was  placed  served  to  recall  him  from  the  momentary 
insensibility.  On  recovering  himself,  he  felt  that  the 
ruffians  were  dragging  him  towards  the  hedge,  and  the 
thought  flashed  upon  him  that  their  object  was  murder. 
Nerved  by  this  idea,  he  collected  his  strength  and  sud¬ 
denly  wresting  himself  from  the  grasp  of  one  of  the 
ruffians  who  had  seized  him  by  the  collar,  he  had  already 
II.  —  6  (59) 


60 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


gained  his  knee,  and  now  his  feet,  when  a  second  blow 
once  more  deprived  him  of  sense. 

When  a  dim  and  struggling  consciousness  recurred  to 
him,  he  found  that  the  villains  had  dragged  him  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hedge  and  were  deliberately  rob¬ 
bing  him.  He  was  on  the  point  of  renewing  an  useless 
and  dangerous  struggle,  when  one  of  the  ruffians  said, — 

“  I  think  he  stirs.  I  had  better  draw  my  knife  across 
his  throat.” 

“Pooh,  no  !  ”  replied  another  voice  ;  “never  kill  if  it 
can  be  helped :  trust  me  ’tis  an  ugly  thing  to  think  of 
afterwards.  Besides,  what  use  is  it  ?  A  robbery  in 
these  parts  is  done  and  forgotten  ;  but  a  murder  rouses 
the  whole  country.” 

“  Damnation,  man  !  why,  the  deed’s  done  already ;  he’s 
as  dead  as  a  door-nail.” 

“Dead!”  said  the  other,  in  a  startled  voice;  “No, 
no  !  ”  and  leaning  down,  the  ruffian  placed  his  hand  on 
Walter’s  heart.  The  unfortunate  traveller  felt  his  flesh 
creep  as  the  hand  touched  him,  but  prudently  abstained 
from  motion  or  exclamation.  He  thought,  however,  as 
with  dizzy  and  half-shut  eyes  he  caught  the  shadowy 
and  dusk  outline  of  the  face  that  bent  over  him,  so  closely 
that  he  felt  the  breath  of  its  lips,  that  it  was  a  face  he 
had  seen  before  ;  and  as  the  man  now  rose,  and  the  wan 
light  of  the  skies  gave  a  somewhat  clearer  view  of  his 
features,  the  supposition  was  heightened,  though  not 
absolutely  confirmed.  But  Walter  had  no  farther  power 
to  observe  his  plunderers :  again  his  brain  reeled ;  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


61 


dark  trees,  the  grim  shadows  of  human  forms,  swam  be¬ 
fore  his  glazing  eye ;  and  he  sank  once  more  into  a  pro¬ 
found  insensibility. 

Meanwhile,  the  doughty  corporal  had,  at  the  first 
sight  of  his  master’s  fall,  halted  abruptly  at  the  spot  to 
which  his  steed  had  carried  him  ;  and  coming  rapidly  to 
the  conclusion  that  three  men  were  best  encountered  at 
a  distance,  he  fired  his  two  pistols,  and,  without  staying 
to  see  if  they  took  effect,  which,  indeed,  they  did  not, 
galloped  down  the  precipitous  hill  with  as  much  despatch 
as  if  it  had  been  the  last  stage  to  “Lunnon.” 

“My  poor  young  master  !  ”  muttered  he.  “But  if  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  the  chief  part  of  the  money’s 
in  the  saddle-bags  any  how ;  and  so,  messieurs  thieves, 
you’re  bit  —  baugh  !  ” 

The  corporal  was  not  long  in  reaching  the  town,  and 
alarming  the  loungers  at  the  inn-door.  A  posse  comita- 
tus  was  soon  formed ;  and,  armed  as  if  they  were  to  have 
encountered  all  the  robbers  between  Hounslow  and  the 
Apennine,  a  band  of  heroes,  with  the  corporal,  who  had 
first  deliberately  reloaded  his  pistols,  at  their  head,  set 
off  to  succor  “the  poor  gentleman  what  was  already 
murdered.” 

They  had  not  got  far  before  they  found  Walter’s  horse 
which  had  luckily  broke  from  the  robbers,  and  was  now 
quietly  regaling  himself  on  a  patch  of  grass  by  the 
road-side.  “  He  can  get  his  supper,  the  beast  I  ”  grunted 
the  corporal,  thinking  of  his  own ;  and  bade  one  of  the 
party  try  to  catch  the  animal,  which,  however,  would 


62 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


have  declined  all  such  proffers,  had  not  a  long  neigh  of 
recognition  from  the  Roman  nose  of  the  corporal’s  steed 
striking  familiarly  on  the  straggler’s  ear,  called  it  forth¬ 
with  to  the  corporal’s  side  ;  and  (while  the  two  chargers 
exchanged  greeting)  the  corporal  seized  its  rein. 

When  they  came  to  the  spot  from  which  the  robbers 
had  made  their  sally,  all  was  still  and  tranquil ;  no  Wal¬ 
ter  was  to  be  seen  :  the  corporal  cautiously  dismounted, 
and  searched  about  with  as  much  minuteness  as  if  he  was 
looking  for  a  pin  ;  but  the  host  of  the  inn  at  which  the 
travellers  had  dined  the  day  before,  stumbled  at  once  on 
the  right  track.  Gouts  of  blood  on  the  white  chalky 
soil  directed  him  to  the  hedge,  and  creeping  through  a 
small  and  recent  gap,  he  discovered  the  yet  breathing 
body  of  the  young  traveller. 

Walter  was  now  conducted  with  much  care  to  the  inn  ; 
d  surgeon  was  already  in  attendance ;  for  having  heard 
that  a  gentleman  had  been  murdered  without  his  know¬ 
ledge,  Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave  had  rushed  from  his  house, 
and  placed  himself  on  the  road,  that  the  poor  creature 
mighi  not,  at  least,  be  buried  without  his  assistance.  So 
eager  was  he  to  begin,  that  he  scarce  suffered  the  unfortu¬ 
nate  Walter  to  be  taken  within,  before  he  whipped  out 
his  instruments,  and  set  to  work  with  the  smack  of  an 
amateur. 

Although  the  surgeon  declared  his  patient  to  be  in  the 
greatest  possible  danger,  the  sagacious  corporal,  who 
thought  himself  more  privileged  to  know  about  wounds 
than  any  man  of  peace,  by  profession,  however  destruc 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


63 


lUt  by  practice,  could  possibly  be,  had  himself  examined 
those  his  master  had  received,  before  he  went  down  to 
taste  his  long-delayed  supper ;  and  he  now  confidently 
assured  the  landlord  and  the  rest  of  the  good  company 
in  the  kitchen,  that  the  blows  on  the  head  had  been  mere 
flea-bites,  and  that  his  master  would  be  as  well  as  ever  in 
a  week  at  the  farthest. 

And,  indeed,  when  Walter  the  very  next  morning 
woke  from  the  stupor,  rather  than  sleep,  he  had  under¬ 
gone,  he  felt  himself  surprisingly  better  than  the  surgeon, 
producing  his  probe,  hastened  to  assure  him  he  possibly 
could  be. 

By  the  help  of  Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave,  Walter  was 
detained  several  days  in  the  town  ;  nor  is  it  wholly  im¬ 
probable,  that  but  for  the  dexterity  of  the  corporal,  he 
might  be  in  the  town  to  this  day;  not  indeed  in  the 
comfortable  shelter  of  the  old-fashioned  inn,  but  in  the 
colder  quarters  of  a  certain  green  spot,  in  which,  despite 
of  its  rural  attractions,  few  persons  are  willing  to  fix  a 
permanent  habitation. 

Luckily,  however,  one  evening,  the  corporal,  who  had 
been,  to  say  truth,  very  regular  in  his  attendance  on  his 
master ;  for,  bating  the  selfishness  consequent,  perhaps, 
on  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  Jacob  Bunting  was  a 
good-natured  man  on  the  whole,  and  liked  his  master  as 
well  as  he  did  anything,  always  excepting  Jacobina  and 
board-wages ;  one  evening,  we  say,  the  corporal,  coming 
into  Walter’s  apartment,  found  him  sitting  up  in  his  bed. 

6  * 


x 


64 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


with  a  very  melancholy  and  dejected  expression  of  counte 
nance. 

“  And  well,  sir,  what  does  the  doctor  say  ?  ”  asked  the 
corporal,  drawing  aside  the  curtains. 

“Ah!  Bunting,  I  fancy  it’s  all  over  with  me!” 

“The  Lord  forbid,  sir!  You’re  a-jesting  surely?” 

“Jesting!  my  good  fellow:  ah!  just  get  me  that 
phial.” 

“  The  filthy  stuff !  ”  said  the  corporal,  with  a  wry  face. 
Well,  sir,  if  I  had  had  the  dressing  of  you  —  been  half¬ 
way  to  Yorkshire  by  this.  Man’s  a  worm;  and  when  a 
doctor  gets  un  on  his  hook,  he  is  sure  to  angle  for  the 
devil  with  the  bait  —  augh  !  ” 

“What !  you  really  think  that  d — d  fellow,  Fillgrave, 
is  keeping  me  on  in  this  way  ?  ” 

“  Is  he  a  fool,  to  give  up  three  phials  a-day,  4s.  6c?. 
item,  ditto,  ditto  ?  ”  cried  the  corporal,  as  if  astonished 
at  the  question.  “  But  don’t  you  feel  yourself  getting  a 
deal  better  every  day  ?  Don’t  you  feel  all  this  ere  stuff 
revive  you  ?  ” 

“No,  indeed,  I  was  amazingly  better  the  first  day  than 
I  am  now  :  I  make  progress  from  worse  to  worse.  Ah  ! 
Bunting,  if  Peter  Dealtry  were  here,  he  might  help  mo 
to  an  appropriate  epitaph  ;  as  it  is,  I  suppose  I  shall  be 
very  simply  labelled.  *  Fillgrave  will  do  the  whole  busi¬ 
ness,  and  put  it  down  in  his  bill  —  item,  nine  draughts — . 
item,  one  epitaph.” 

“  Lord-a-mercy,  your  honor  !  ”  said  the  corporal,  draw- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


65 


mg  out  a  little  red-spotted  pocket-handkerchief;  “how 
can. — jest  so?  —  it’s  quite  moving.” 

“  I  wish  we  were  moving  !  ”  sighed  the  patient. 

“And  so  we  might  be,”  cried  the  corporal;  “so  we 
might,  if  you’d  pluck  up  a  bit.  Just  let  me  look  at  your 
honor’s  head  ;  I  knows  what  a  con/usion  is  better  nor 
any  of  ’em.” 

The  corporal  having  obtained  permission,  now  removed 
the  bandages  wherewith  the  doctor  had  bound  his  intend¬ 
ed  sacrifice  to  Pluto,  and  after  peering  into  the  wounds 
for  about  a  minute,  he  thrust  out  his  under  lip,  with  a 
contemptuous, — 

“  Pshaugh  !  augh  !  — And  how  long,”  said  he,  “  does 
Master  Pillgrave  say  you  be  to  be  under  his  hands  ?  — 
augh  !  ” 

“  He  gives  me  hopes  that  I  may  be  taken  out  an  airing 
very  gently  (yes,  hearses  always  go  very  gently)  in 
about  three  weeks  !  ” 

The  corporal  started,  and  broke  into  a  long  whistle. 
He  then  grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  snapped  his  fingers, 
and  said,  “Man  of  the  world,  sir, —  man  of  the  world 
every  inch  of  him  !  ” 

“  He  seems  resolved  that  I  shall  be  a  man  of  another 
world,”  said  Walter. 

“Tell  ye  what,  sir  —  take  my  advice  —  your  honor 
knows  I  be  no  fool  —  throw  off  them  ere  wrappers  ;  let 
me  put  on  a  scrap  of  plaster  —  pitch  phials  to  devil — • 
order  out  horses  to-morrow,  and  when  you’ve  been  in  tht» 
ah  half-an-hour,  won’t  know  yourself  again  1  ” 


66 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“Bunting  !  the  horses  out  to-morrow  ?  —  Faith  I  don’t 
think  I  could  walk  across  the  room.” 

“Just  try,  your  honor.” 

“  Ah  1  I’m  very  weak,  very  weak  —  my  dressing-gowr 
and  slippers  —  your  arm,  Bunting  —  well,  upon  my  honor, 
I  walk  very  stoutly,  eh  ?  I  should  not  have  thought 
this  !  Leave  go  :  why  I  really  get  on  without  your  assist¬ 
ance  !  ” 

“Walk  as  well  as  ever  you  did.” 

“Now  I’m  out  of  bed,  I  don’t  think  I  shall  go  back 
again  to  it.” 

“Would  not,  if  I  was  your  honor.” 

“  And  after  so  much  exercise,  I  really  fancy  I’ve  a  sort 
of  an  appetite.” 

“  Like  a  beefsteak  ?  ” 

“Nothing  better.” 

“  Pint  of  wine  ?  ” 

“  Why,  that  would  be  too  much  —  eh  ?  ” 

“  Not  it.” 

“  Go,  then,  my  good  Bunting  :  go,  and  make  haste  — 
stop,  I  say,  that  d — d  fellow - ” 

“Good  sign  to  swear,”  interrupted  the  corporal; 
swcre  twice  within  last  five  minutes — -famous  symptom  1  ” 

•  Do  you  choose  to  hear  me  ?  That  d — d  fellow,  Fill  • 
grave,  is  coming  back  in  an  hour  to  bleed  me :  do  you 
mount  guard  —  refuse  to  let  him  in  —  pay  him  his  bill  — 
you  have  the  money.  And  harkye,  don’t  be  rude  to  the 
rascal.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


6 1 


“Rude,  your  honor  I  not  I — been  in  the  forty-second 
—  knows  discipline  —  only  rude  to  the  privates!” 

The  corporal  having  seen  his  master  conduct  himself 
respectably  towards  the  viands  with  which  he  supplied 
him  —  having  set  his  room  to  rights,  brought  him  the 
candles,  borrowed  him  a  book,  and  left  him,  for  the  pre¬ 
sent,  in  extremely  good  spirits,  and  prepared  for  the 
flight  of  the  morrow  ;  the  corporal,  I  say,  now  lighting 
his  pipe,  stationed  himself  at  the  door  of  the  inn,  and 
waited  for  Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave.  Presently  the  doc¬ 
tor,  who  was  a  little  thin  man,  came  bustling  across  the 
street,  and  was  about,  with  a  familiar  “  Good  evening,” 
to  pass  by  the  corporal,  when  that  worthy,  dropping  his 
pipe,  said  respectfully,  “  Beg  pardon,  sir  —  want  to  speak 
to  you  —  a  little  favor.  Will  your  honor  walk  into  the 
back-parlor  ?  ” 

“Oh!  another  patient,”  thought  the  doctor;  “these 
soldiers  are  careless  fellows  —  often  get  into  scrapes. 
Yes  friend,  I’m  at  your  service.” 

The  corporal  showed  the  man  of  phials  into  the  back- 
parlor,  and  hemming  thrice,  looked  sheepish,  as  if  in 
doubt  how  to  begin.  It  was  the  doctor’s  business  to  en¬ 
courage  the  bashful. 

“Well,  my  good  man,”  said  he,  brushing  off,  with  the 
arm  of  his  coat,  some  dust  that  had  settled  on  his  inex¬ 
pressibles,  “  so  you  want  to  consult  me  ?  ” 

“  Indeed,  your  honor,  I  do  ;  but  feel  a  little  awkward 
in  doing  so  —  a  stranger  and  all.” 


68 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“Pooh! —  medical  men  are  never  strangers.  I  am 
the  triend  of  every  man  who  requires  my  assistance.” 

“Augh! —  and  I  do  require  your  honor’s  assistance 
very  sadly.” 

“  Well  —  well  —  speak  out.  Any  thing  of  long  stand¬ 
ing  ?  ” 

“Why  only  since  we  have  been  here,  sir.” 

“  Oh,  that’s  all!  Well.” 

“Your  honor’s  so  good  —  that  —  won’t  scruple  in  tell¬ 
ing  you  all.  You  sees  as  how  we  were  robbed  —  master, 
at  least,  was  —  had  some  little  in  my  pockets  —  but  we 
poor  servants  are  never  too  rich.  You  seems  such  a 
kind  gentleman  —  so  attentive  to  master  —  though  you 
must  have  felt  how  disinterested  it  was  to  ’tend  a  man 
what  had  been  robbed  —  that  I  have  no  hesitation  in 
making  bold  to  ask  you  to  lend  us  a  few  guineas,  just  to 
help  us  out  with  the  bill  here, —  bother  I  ” 

“Fellow!”  said  the  doctor,  rising,  “I  don’t  know 
what  you  mean  ;  but  I ’d  have  you  to  learn  that  I  am  not 
to  be  cheated  out  of  my  time  and  property  !  I  shall  in¬ 
sist  upon  being  paid  my  bill  instantly,  before  I  dress  your 
master’s  wound  once  more  !  ” 

“  Augh  !  ”  said  the  corporal,  who  was  delighted  to  find 
the  doctor  come  so  immediately  into  the  snare  :  —  “  won’t 
be  so  cruel  surely  !  —  why,  you’ll  leave  us  without  a 
shiner  to  pay  my  host  here  !  ” 

“Nonsense!  —  Your  master,  if  he’s  a  gentleman,  can 
*Trite  home  for  money.” 

“  Ab,  sir,  all  very  well  to  say  so  ;  but,  between  you 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


69 


and  me  and  the  bed-post,  young  master’s  quarrelled  with 
old  master  —  old  master  won’t  give  him  a  rap  :  so  I’m 
sure,  since  your  honor’s  a  friend  to  every  man  who  re¬ 
quires  your  assistance  —  noble  saying,  sir  ! — you  won’t 
refuse  us  a  few  guineas.  And  as  for  your  bill  —  why - ” 

“  Sir,  you’re  an  impudent  vagabond  1  ”  cried  the  doc¬ 
tor,  as  red  as  a  rose-draught,  and  flinging  out  of  the 
room ;  “  and  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  bring  in  my  bill, 
and  expect  to  be  paid  within  ten  minutes.” 

The  doctor  waited  for  no  answer  —  he  hurried  home, 
scratched  off  his  account,  and  flew  back  with  it  in  as 
much  haste  as  if  his  patient  had  been  a  month  longer 
under  his  care,  and  was  consequently  on  the  brink  of  that 
happier  world,  where,  since  the  inhabitants  are  immortal, 
it  is  very  evident  that  doctors,  as  being  useless,  are  never 
admitted. 

The  corporal  met  him  as  before. 

“  There,  sir  1  ”  cried  the  doctor,  breathlessly  ;  and  theu 
putting  his  arms  a-kimbo,  “take  that  to  your  master, 
and  desire  him  to  pay  me  instantly.” 

“  Augh  !  and  shall  do  no  such  thing.” 

“  You  won’t  ?  ” 

“No,  for  shall  pay  you  myself.  Where’s  your  re¬ 
ceipt  —  eh  ?  ” 

And  with  great  composure  the  corporal  drew  out  a 
well-filled  purse,  and  discharged  the  bill.  The  doctor 
was  so  thunderstricken,  that  he  pocketed  the  money 
without  uttering  a  word.  He  consoled  himself,  however, 


70 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


with  the  belief  that  Walter,  whom  he  had  tamed  into  a 
becoming  hypochondria,  would  be  sure  to  send  for  him 
the  next  morning.  Alas,  for  mortal  expectations  !  —  the 
r.ext  morning  Walter  was  once  more  on  the  road. 


CHAPTER  II. 

NEW  TRACES  OF  THE  FATE  OF  GEOFFREY  LESTER. —  WALTER 
AND  THE  CORPORAL  PROCEED  ON  A  FRESH  EXPEDITION 

- THE  CORPORAL  IS  ESPECIALLY  SAGACIOUS  ON  THE  OLD 

TOPIC  OF  THE  WORLD. - HIS  OPINIONS  ON  THE  MEN  WHO 

CLAIM  KNOWLEDGE  THEREOF ;  —  ON  THE  ADVANTAGES 
ENJOYED  BY  A  VALET; — ON  THE  SCIENCE  OF  SUCCESS¬ 
FUL  LOVE; - ON  VIRTUE  AND  THE  CONSTITUTION; — ON 

QUALITIES  TO  BE  DESIRED  IN  A  MISTRESS,  ETC.  —  A 
LANDSCAPE. 


“This  way  of  talking  of  his  very  much  enlivens  the  conversa¬ 
tion  among  us  of  a  more  sedate  turn.”  —  Spectator,  No.  III. 

Walter  found,  while  he  made  search  himself,  that  it 
was  no  easy  matter,  in  so  large  a  county  as  Yorkshire, 
to  obtain  even  the  preliminary  particulars,  viz.  the  place 
cf  residence,  and  the  name  of  the  colonel  from  India 
whose  dying  gift  his  father  had  left  the  house  of  the 
worthy  Courtland  to  claim  and  receive.  But  the  mo¬ 
ment  be  committed  the  inquiry  to  the  care  of  an  active 
and  intelligent  lawyer,  the  case  seemed  to  brighten  up 
prodigiously;  and  Walter  was  shortly  informed  Lhat  a 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


71 


Colonel  Elmore,  who  had  been  in  India,  had  died  in  the 
year  17 — ;  that  by  reference  to  his  will,  it  appeared  that 
he  had  left  Daniel  Clarke  the  sum  of  a  thousand  pounds, 
and  the  house  in  which  he  resided  before  his  death;  the 
latter  being  merely  leasehold,  at  a  high  rent,  was  speci¬ 
fied  in  the  will  to  be  of  small  value:  it  was  situated  in 
the  outskirts  of  Knaresborough.  It  was  also  discovered 
that  a  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore,  the  onlv  surviving  executor  of 
the  will,  and  a  distant  relation  of  the  deceased  colo¬ 
nel’s,  lived  about  fifty  miles  from  York,  and  could,  in  all 
probability,  better  than  any  one,  afford  Walter  those 
farther  particulars  of  which  he  was  so  desirous  to  be  in¬ 
formed.  Walter  immediately  proposed  to  his  lawyer  to 
accompany  him  to  this  gentleman’s  house ;  but  it  so  hap¬ 
pened  that  the  lawyer  could  not,  for  three  or  four  days, 
leave  his  business  at  York;  and  Walter,  exceedingly  im¬ 
patient  to  proceed  on  the  intelligence  thus  granted  him, 
and  disliking  the  meagre  information  obtained  from  let¬ 
ters,  when  a  personal  interview  could  be  obtained,  re¬ 
solved  himself  to  repair  to  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore’s  without 
farther  delay.  And  behold,  therefore,  our  worthy  corpo¬ 
ral  and  his  master  again  mounted,  and  commencing  a 
new  journey. 

The  corporal,  always  fond  of  adventure,  was  in  high 
spirits. 

“  See,  sir,”  said  he  to  his  master,  patting  with  gregt 
affection  the  neck  of  his  steed, —  “see,  sir,  how  brisk  the 
ereturs  are;  what  a  deal  of  good  their  long  rest  at  York 
city’s  done  ’em  !  Ah,  your  honor,  what  a  fine  town  that 
II.  — 7 


72 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ere  be!  —  Yet,”  added  the  corporal  with  an  air  of  great 
superiority,  “it  gives  you  no  notion  of  Lunnon  like;  on 
the  faith  of  a  man,  no !  ” 

“Well,  Bunting,  perhaps  we  may  be  in  London  within 
a  month  hence.” 

“  And  afore  we  gets  there,  your  honor, —  no  olfence, — 
but  should  like  to  give  you  some  advice ;  — ’tis  ticklish 
place,  that  Lunnon;  and  though  you  be  by  no  manner 
of  means  deficient  in  genus,  yet,  sir,  you  be  young,  and 
T  be - ” 

“Old;  —  true,  Bunting,”  added  Walter  very  gravely. 

“Augh  —  bother!  old,  sir!  old,  sir!  A  man  in  the 
prime  of  life, —  hair  coal  black,  (bating  a  few  grey  ones 
that  have  had  since  twenty, — care,  and  military  service, 
sir,) — carriage  straight, —  teeth  strong, —  not  an  ail  in 
the  world,  bating  the  rheumatics, —  is  not  old,  sir — not  by 
no  manner  of  means — baugh!” 

“You  are  very  right,  Bunting:  when  I  said  old,  I 
meant  experienced.  I  assure  you  I  shall  be  very  grate¬ 
ful  for  your  advice;  and  suppose,  while  we  walk  our 
horses  up  this  hill,  you  begin  lecture  the  first.  London’s 
a  fruitful  subject;  all  you  can  say  on  it  will  not  be  soon 
exhausted.” 

“Ah,  may  well  say  that,”  replied  the  corporal,  exceed¬ 
ingly  flattered  with  the  permission  he  had  obtained; 
“  and  anything  my  poor  wit  can  suggest,  quite  at  ycur 
honor’s  sarvice, —  ehem,  hem!  You  must  know  by  Lun¬ 
non,  I  means  the  world,  and  by  the  world  means  Lunnon ; 
know  one  —  Enow  t’other.  But  ’tis  not  them  as  affects 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


13 

to  be  most  knowing  as  be  so  at  bottom.  Begging  your 
honor’s  pardon,  I  thinks  gentlefolks  what  lives  only  with 
gentlefolks,  and  calls  themselves  men  of  the  world,  be 
often  no  wiser  nor  Pagan  creturs,  and  live  in  a  Gentile 
darkness.” 

“The  true  knowledge  of  the  world,”  said  Walter,  “  is 
only  then  for  the  corporals  of  the  forty-second,  —  eh, 
Bunting  ?  ” 

“As  to  that,  sir,”  quoth  the  corporal,  “  ’tis  not  being 
of  this  calling  or  of  that  calling  that  helps  one  on;  ’tis 
an  inborn  sort  of  genius,  the  talent  of  obsarving,  and 
growing  wise  by  obsarving.  One  picks  up  crumb  here, 
crumb  there ;  but  if  one  has  not  good  digestion,  Lord, 
what  sinnifies  a  feast?  Healthy  man  thrives  on  a  ’tatoe, 
uckly  look  pale  on  a  haunch.  You  sees,  your  honor,  as 
L  said  afore,  I  was  own  sarvant  to  Colonel  Dysart;  he 
was  a  lord’s  nephy,  a  very  gay  gentleman,  and  great  hand 
with  the  ladies, —  not  a  man  more  in  the  world;  so  I  had 
the  opportunity  of  laming  what’s  what  among  the  best 
set;  at  his  honor’s  expense,  too, —  augh  !  To  my  mind, 
sir,  there  is  not  a  place  from  which  a  man  has  a  better 
view  of  things  than  the  bit  carpet  behind  a  gentleman’s 
chair.  The  gentleman  eats,  and  talks,  and  swears,  and 
jests,  and  plays  cards,  and  makes  love,  and  tries  to 
cheat,  and  is  cheated,  and  his  man  stands  behind  with  his 
eyes  and  ears  open  —  augh!” 

“One  should  go  into  service  to  learn  diplomacy,  I  see,” 
said  Walter,  greatly  amused. 

“Does  not  kuow  what  ’plomacy  be,  sir,  but  knows  it 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


% 


T4 

would  be  better  for  many  a  young  master  nor  all  the 
colleges;  —  would  not  be  so  many  bubbles  if  my  lord 
could  take  a  turn  now  and  then  with  John.  A-well,  sir! 
how  I  used  to  laugh  in  my  sleeve  like,  when  I  saw  my 
master,  who  was  thought  the  knowingest  gentlemar 
about  Court,  taken  in  every  day  smack  afore  my  face 
There  was  one  lady  whom  he  had  tried  hard,  as  he 
thought,  to  get  away  from  her  husband;  and  he  used  to 
be  so  mightily  pleased  at  every  glance  of  her  brown  eyes 
—  and  be  d — d  to  them!  —  and  so  careful  the  husband 
should  not  see  —  so  pluming  himself  on  his  discretion 
here,  and  his  conquest  there, —  when,  Lord  bless  you,  it 
was  all  settled  ’twix  man  and  wife  aforehand !  And 
while  the  colonel  laughed  at  the  cuckold,  the  cuckold 
laughed  at  the  dupe.  For  you  sees,  sir,  as  how  the  colo¬ 
nel  was  a  rich  man,  and  the  jewels  as  he  bought  for  the 
lady  went  half  into  the  husband’s  pocket  —  he!  he! 
That’s  the  way  of  the  world,  sir, —  that’s  the  way  of  the 
world !  ” 

“Upon  my  word,  you  draw  a  very  bad  picture  of  the 
world:  you  color  highly;  and  by  the  way,  I  observe  that 
whenever  you  find  any  man  committing  a  roguish  action, 
instead  of  calling  him  a  scoundrel,  you  show  those  great 
teeth  of  yours,  and  chuckle  out  ‘A  man  of  the  world  1  a 
man  of  the  world !  ” 

“To  be  sure,  your  honor;  the  proper  name,  too. — 
’Tis  your  greenhorns  who  fly  into  a  passion,  and  use  hard 
words.  You  see,  sir,  there’s  one  thing  we  Iarn  afore  all 
other  things  in  the  world — to  butter  bread.  Knowledge 


EUGENE  All  AM. 


75 


of  others,  means  only  the  knowledge  which  side  bread’s 
buttered.  In  short,  sir,  the  wiser  grow,  the  more  take 
Cixre  of  oursels.  Some  persons  make  a  mistake,  and,  in 
trying  to  take  care  of  themsels,  run  neck  into  haltei  — 
baugh !  they  are  not  rascals  —  they  are  would-be  men  of 
the  world.  Others  be  more  prudent  (for,  as  I  said  afore, 
sir,  discretion  is  a  pair  of  stirrups) ;  they  be  the  true  men 
of  the  world.” 

“I  should  have  thought,”  said  Walter,  “that  the 
knowledge  of  the  world  might  be  that  knowledge  which 
preserves  us  from  being  cheated,  but  not  that  which 
enables  us  to  cheat.” 

“Augh!”  quoth  the  corporal,  with  that  sort  of  smile 
with  which  you  see  an  old  philosopher  put  down  a  high- 
sounding  error  from  a  young  disciple  who  flatters  himself 
he  has  uttered  something  prodigiously  fine, —  “augh! 
and  did  I  not  tell  you,  t’other  day,  to  look  at  the  pro¬ 
fessions,  your  honor  ?  What  would  a  laryer  be  if  he  did 
not  know  how  to  cheat  a  witness  and  humbug  a  jury?  — 
knows  he  is  lying:  why  is  he  lying?  for  love  of  his  fees, 
or  his  fame  like,  which  gets  fees;  —  augh!  is  not  that 
cheating  others?  The  doctor,  too  —  Master  Fillgrave, 
for  instance  ?  ” 

'Say  no  more  of  the  doctors;  I  abandon  them  to 
your  satire,  without  a  word.” 

“The  lying  knaves!  Don’t  they  say  one’s  well  when 
one’s  ill  —  ill  when  one’s  well?  —  profess  to  know  what 
don’t  know  ?  thrust  solemn  phizzes  into  every  abomina¬ 
tion,  as  if  larring  lav  1  *d  in  a - ?  and  all  for  their 

7  * 


76 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


neighbor’s  money,  or  their  own  reputation,  which  makes 
money  —  augh  1  In  short  sir,  look  where  will,  impossi¬ 
ble  to  see  so  much  cheating  allowed,  praised,  encouraged, 
and  feel  very  angry  with  a  cheat  who  has  only  made  a 
mistake.  But  when  I  sees  a  man  butter  his  bread  care¬ 
fully —  knife  steady  —  butter  thick,  and  hungry  fellows 
looking  on  and  licking  chops  —  mothers  stopping  their 
brats;  ‘See,  child,  respectable  man,  —  how  thick  his 
bread’s  buttered!  pull  olf  your  hat  to  him;’  —  when  I 
sees  that,  my  heart  warms :  there’s  the  true  man  of  the 
world  —  augh  !  ” 

“Well,  Banting,”  said  Walter,  laughing,  “though  you 
are  thus  lenient  to  those  unfortunate  gentlemen  whom 
others  call  rogues,  and  thus  laudatory  of  gentlemen  whc 
are  at  best  discreetly  selfish,  I  suppose  you  admit  the 
possibility  of  virtue,  and  your  heart  warms  as  much  when 
you  see  a  man  of  worth  as  when  you  see  a  man  of  the 
world  ?  ” 

“Why,  you  knows,  your  honor,”  answered  the  corpo¬ 
ral,  “so  far  as  vartue’s  concerned,  there’s  a  deal  in  con¬ 
stitution  :  but  as  for  knowledge  of  the  world,  one  gets  it 
oneself!  ” 

“I  don’t  wonder,  Bunting — as  your  opinion  of  women 
is  much  the  same  as  your  opinion  of  men — that  you  are 
still  unmarried.” 

“Augh!  but  your  honor  mistakes;  I  am  no  mice-and- 
trope.  Men  are  neither  one  thing  nor  t’other,  neither 
good  nor  bad.  A  prudent  parson  has  nothing  to  fear 
from  ’em,  nor  a  foolish  one  anything  to  gain  —  baugh 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


FT 

As  to  the  women  creturs,  your  honor,  as  I  said,  vartue’s 
a  deal  in  the  constitution.  Would  not  ask  what  a  lass¬ 
ie’s  mind  be,  nor  what  her  eddycation ;  but  see  what  her 
habits  be,  that’s  all, —  habits  and  constitution  all  one, — 
play  into  one  another’s  hands.” 

“And  what  sort  of  signs,  Bunting,  would  you  mostly 
esteem  in  a  lady  ?  ” 

“First  place,  sir,  woman  I’d  marry  must  not  mope 
when  alone!  must  be  able  to  ’muse  herself, —  must  be 
easily  ’mused.  That’s  a  great  sign,  sir,  of  an  innocent 
mind,  to  be  tickled  with  straws.  Besides,  employment 
keeps  ’em  out  of  harm’s  way.  Second  place,  should  ob- 
sarve,  if  she  was  very  fond  of  places,  your  honor  —  sorry 
to  move — that’s  a  sure  sign  she  won’t  tire  easily:  but 
that  if  she  like  you  now  from  fancy,  she’ll  like  you  by 
and  by  from  custom.  Thirdly,  your  honor,  she  should 
not  be  avarse  to  dress  —  a  leaning  that  way  shows  she 
has  a  desire  to  please:  people  who  don’t  care  about 
pleasing,  always  sullen.  Fourthly,  she  must  bear  to  be 
crossed  —  I’d  be  quite  sure  that  she  might  be  contradict¬ 
ed,  without  mumping  or  storming ;  ’cause  then,  you 
knows,  your  honor,  if  she  wanted  any  thing  expensive, 
need  not  give  it  —  augh  !  Fifthly,  must  not  set  up  for  a 
saint,  your  honor;  they  pye-house  she-creturs  always 
thinks  themsels  so  much  better  nor  we  men ;  don’t  under¬ 
stand  our  language  and  ways,  your  honor:  they  wants 
us  not  only  to  belave,  but  to  tremble  —  bother!” 

“I  like  your  description  well  enough,  on  the  wholle  ’ 


78 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


said  Walter;  and  when  I  look  out  for  a  wife  I  shall  come 
to  you  for  advice. ” 

“  Y’our  honor  may  have  it  already  —  Miss  Ellinor’s 
jist  the  thing.  ” 

Walter  turned  away  his  head,  and  told  Bunting,  with 
great  show  of  indignation,  not  to  be  a  fool. 

The  corporal,  who  was  not  quite  certain  of  his  ground 
here,  but  who  knew  that  Madeline,  at  all  events,  was 
going  to  be  married  to  Aram,  and  deemed  it,  therefore, 
quite  useless  to  waste  any  praise  upon  her,  thought  that  a 
few  random  shots  of  eulogium  were  worth  throwing  away 
on  a  chance,  aud  consequently  continued, — 

“Augh,  your  honor, —  ’tis  not  ’cause  I  have  eyes,  that 
I  be’s  a  fool.  Miss  Ellinor  and  your  honor  be  only  cou¬ 
sins,  to  be  sure ;  but  more  like  brother  and  sister,  nor 
anything  else.  Howsomever,  she’s  a  rare  cretur,  who¬ 
ever  gets  her;  has  a  face  that  puts  one  in  good  humor 
with  the  world,  if  one  sees  it  first  thing  in  the  morning; 
’tis  as  good  as  the  sun  in  July  —  augh !  But,  as  I  was 
saying,  your  honor,  ’bout  the  women  creturs  in  gene¬ 
ral - ” 

“Enough  of  them,  Bunting;  let  us  suppose  you  have 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  find  one  to  suit  you  —  how  would 
you  woo  her?  Of  course  there  are  certain  secrets  of 
courtship,  which  you  will  not  hesitate  to  impart  to  one 
who,  like  me,  wants  such  assistance  from  art, —  much 
more  than  you  can  do,  who  are  so  bountifully  favored  by 
nature.” 

“As  to  nature,”  replied  the  corporal,  with  consider* 


EUGENE  AR AM. 


able  modesty,  for  he  never  disputed  the  truth  of  the 
compliment,  “’tis  not  ’cause  a  man  be  six  feet  without ’s 
shoes  that  he’s  any  nearer  to  a  lady’s  heart.  Sir,  I  will 
own  to  you,  howsomever  it  makes  ’gainst  your  honor  and 
myself,  for  that  matter  —  that  don’t  think  one  is  a  bit 
more  lucky  with  the  ladies  for  being  so  handsome !  ’Tis 
all  very  well  with  them  ere  willing  ones,  your  honor — - 
caught  at  a  glance ;  but  as  for  the  better  sort,  one’s 
beauty’s  all  bother !  Why,  sir,  when  we  see  some  of  the 
most  fortunatest  men  among  she-creturs  —  what  poor 
little  minnikens  they  be!  One’s  a  dwarf — another 
knock-kneed  — a  third  squints  —  and  a  fourth  might  be 
shown  for  a  7*ape  1  Neither,  sir,  is  it  your  soft,  insinuat¬ 
ing,  die-away  youths,  as  seem  at  first  so  seductive ;  they 
do  very  well  for  lovers,  your  honor:  but  then  it’s  always 
. —  rejected  ones!  Neither,  your  honor,  does  the  art  of 
succeeding  with  the  ladies  ’quire  all  those  finnikin  nimini- 
pinimis,  flourishes,  and  maxims,  and  saws,  which  the  colo¬ 
nel,  my  old  master,  and  the  great  gentlefolks,  as  be 
knowing,  call  the  art  of  love  —  baugh  !  The  whole 
science,  sir,  consists  in  these  two  rules — ‘Ax  soon,  and 
ax  often.’” 

“There  seems  no  great  difficulty  in  them,  Bunting.” 

“Not  to  us  who  has  gumption,  sir;  but  then  there  is 
summut  in  the  manner  of  axing  —  one  can’t  be  too  hot  — 
can’t  flatter  too  much  —  and  above  all,  one  must  never 
take  a  refusal.  There,  sir,  now, —  if  you  takes  my  advice 
—  may  break  the  peace  of  all  the  husbands  in  Lunnon — - 
bother — waugh !  ” 


Y 


80 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  My  uncle  little  knows  what  a  praiseworthy  tutor  he 
has  secured  me  in  you,  Bunting,”  said  Walter,  laughing; 
11  and  now,  while  the  road  is  so  good,  let  us  make  the 
most  of  it.” 

As  they  set  out  late  in  the  day,  and  the  corporal  was 
fearful  of  another  attack  from  a  hedge,  he  resolved  that, 
about  evening,  one  of  the  horses  should  be  seized  with  a 
sudden  lameness  (which  he  effected  by  slyly  inserting  a 
stone  between  the  shoe  and  the  hoof),  that  required  im¬ 
mediate  attention  and  a  night’s  rest ;  so  that  it  was  not 
till  the  early  noon  of  the  next  day  that  our  travellers 
entered  the  village  in  which  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore  resided. 

It  was  a  soft  tranquil  day,  though  one  of  the  very  last 
in  October;  for  the  reader  will  remember  that  time  had 
not  stood  still  during  Walter’s  submission  to  the  care  of 
Mr.  Pertinax  Eillgrave,  and  his  subsequent  journey  and 
researches. 

The  sun-light  rested  on  a  broad  patch  of  green  heatlq 
covered  with  furze,  and  around  it  were  scattered  the  cot¬ 
tages  and  farm-houses  of  the  little  village.  On  the  other 
side,  as  Walter  descended  the  gentle  hill  that  led  into 
this  remote  hamlet,  wide  and  flat  meadows,  interspersed 
with  several  fresh  and  shaded  ponds,  stretched  away  to¬ 
wards  a  belt  of  rich  woodland  gorgeous  with  the  melan¬ 
choly  pomp  by  which  the  “regal  year”  seeks  to  veil  its 
decay.  Among  these  meadows  you  might  now  see 
groups  of  cattle  quietly  grazing,  or  standing  half  hid  in 
the  still  and  sheltered  pools.  Still  farther,  crossing  to 
the  woods,  a  solitary  sportsman  walked  carelessly  on,  sur¬ 
rounded  by  some  half-a-dozen  spaniels,  and  the  shrill 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


81 


small  tongue  of  one  younger  straggler  of  the  canine  crew, 
who  had  broken  indecorously  from  the  rest,  and  already 
entered  the  wood,  might  be  just  heard,  softened  down  by 
the  distance,  into  a  wild,  cheery  sound,  that  animated, 
without  disturbing  the  serenity  of  the  scene. 

“After  all,”  said  Walter  aloud,  “the  scholar  was 
right  —  there  is  nothing  like  the  country  1 

‘  Oh,  happiness  of  sweet  retired  content, 

To  be  at  once  secure  and  innocent!’” 

“Be  them  verses  in  the  Psalms,  sir?”  said  the  corpo¬ 
ral,  who  was  close  behind. 

“No,  Bunting;  but  they  were  written  by  one  who,  if 
I  recollect  right,  set  the  Psalms  to  verse.  *  I  hope  they 
meet  with  your  approbation?” 

“Indeed,  sir,  and  no  —  since  they  ben’t  in  the  Psalms.” 

“And  why,  Mr.  Critic?” 

“’Cause  what’s  the  use  of  security,  if  one’s  innocent, 
and  does  not  mean  to  take  advantage  of  it? — baugh  1 
One  does  not  lock  the  door  for  nothing,  your  honor !  ” 

“You  shall  enlarge  on  that  honest  doctrine  of  yours 
another  time ;  meanwhile,  call  that  shepherd,  and  ask  the 
way  to  Mr.  Elmore’s.” 

The  corporal  obeyed,  and  found  that  a  clump  of  trees, 
at  the  farther  corner  of  the  waste  land,  was  the  grove 
that  surrounded  Mr.  Elmore’s  house :  a  short  canter 
across  the  heath  brought  them  to  a  white  gate,  and  hav¬ 
ing  passed  this,  a  comfortable  brick  mansion,  of  moder¬ 
ate  size,  stood  before  them. 


*  Denham. 


82 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  III. 

4  SCHOLAR,  BUT  OF  A  DIFFERENT  MOULD  FROM  THE  STU¬ 
DENT  OF  GRASSDALE. - NEW  PARTICULARS  CONCERNING 

GEOFFREY  LESTER.  —  THE  JOURNEY  RECOMMENCED. 


“  Insenuitque 

Libris.”  *  —  IIorat. 

“Volat,  ambiguis 
Mobilis  alis,  Hora.”  f  —  Seneca. 

Upon  inquiring  for  Mr.  Elmore,  Walter  was  shown 
into  a  handsome  library,  that  appeared  well  stocked  with 
books,  of  that  good,  old-fashioned  size  and  solidity, 
which  are  now  fast  passing  from  the  world,  or  at  least 
shrinking  into  old  shops  and  public  collections.  The 
time  may  come,  when  the  mouldering  remains  of  a  folio 
will  attract  as  much  philosophical  astonishment  as  the 
bones  of  the  mammoth.  For  behold,  the  deluge  of  wri¬ 
ters  hath  produced  a  new  world  of  small  octavo !  and  in 
the  next  generation,  thanks  to  the  popular  libraries,  we 
shall  only  vibrate  between  the  duodecimo  and  the  dia¬ 
mond  edition.  Nay,  we  foresee  the  time  when  a  very 
handsome  collection  may  be  carried  about  in  one’s 
waistcoat-pocket,  and  a  whole  library  of  the  British 
Classics  be  neatly  arranged  in  a  well-compacted  snuff-box. 


*  And  he  hath  grown  old  in  books, 

|  Time  flies ,  still  moving  on  uncertain  wing. 


EUGENE  ARAM 


8? 


In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Elmore  made  his  appearance, 
he  was  a  short,  well-built  man,  about  the  age  of  fifty 
Contrary  to  the  established  mode,  he  wore  no  wig,  and 
was  very  bald ;  except  at  the  sides  of  the  head,  and  a 
little  circular  island  of  hair  in  the  centre.  But  this  de¬ 
fect  was  rendered  the  less  visible  by  a  profusion  of  pow¬ 
der.  He  was  dressed  with  evident  care  and  precision ; 
a  snulf-colored  coat  was  adorned  with  a  respectable  pro¬ 
fusion  of  gold  lace :  his  breeches  were  of  plum-colored 
satin ;  his  salmon-colored  stockings,  scrupulously  drawn 
up,  displayed  a  very  handsome  calf;  and  a  pair  of  steel 
buckles,  in  his  high-heeled  and  square-toed  shoes,  were 
polished  into  a  lustre  which  almost  rivalled  the  splendor 
of  diamonds.  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore  was  a  beau,  a  wit,  and 
a  scholar  of  the  old  school.  He  abounded  in  jests,  in 
quotations,  in  smart  sayings,  and  pertinent  anecdotes ; 
but,  withal,  his  classical  learning  (out  of  the  classics  he 
knew  little  enough)  was  at  once  elegant,  but  wearisome ; 
pedantic,  but  profound. 

To  this  gentleman  Walter  presented  a  letter  of  intro¬ 
duction  which  he  had  obtained  from  a  distinguished 
clergyman  in  York.  Mr.  Elmore  received  it  with  a  pro¬ 
found  salutation  :  — 

“  Aha,  from  my  friend,  Dr.  Hebraist,”  said  he,  glancing 
at  the  seal:  “a  most  worthy  man,  and  a  ripe  scholar.  I 
presume  at  once,  sir,  from  his  introduction,  that  you 
yourself  have  cultivated  the  literas  humaniores.  Pray 
sit  down  —  ay,  I  see  you  take  up  a  book  —  an  excellent 
symptom;  it  gives  me  an  immediate  insight  into  your 
XI.  — 8 


84 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


character.  But  you  have  chanced,  sir,  on  light  reading, 

• — one  of  the  Greek  novels,  I  think:  you  must  not  judge 
of  my  studies  by  such  a  specimen.” 

“Nevertheless,  sir,  it  does  not  seem  to  my  unskilful 
eye  very  easy  Greek.” 

“Pretty  well,  sir;  barbarous,  but  amusing,  —  pray, 
continue  it.  The  triumphant  entry  of  Paulus  Emilius  is 
not  ill  told.  I  confess,  that  I  think  novels  might  be 
made  much  higher  works  than  they  have  been  yet. 
Doubtless,  you  remember  what  Aristotle  says  concerning 
painters  and  sculptors,  ‘that  they  teach  and  recommend 
virtue  in  a  more  efficacious  and  powerful  manner  than 
philosophers  by  their  dry  precepts,  and  are  more  capa¬ 
ble  of  amending  the  vicious,  than  the  best  moral  lessons 
without  such  aid.’  But  how  much  more,  sir,  can  a  good 
novelist  do  this,  than  the  best  sculptor  or  painter  in  the 
world !  Every  one  can  be  charmed  by  a  fine  novel,  few 
by  a  painting.  1  Docli  rationem  artis  intelligunt,  indocti 
voluptatemd  *  A  happy  sentence  that  in  Quinctilian,  sir, 
is  it  not?  But,  bless  me,  I  am  forgetting  the  letter  of 
my  good  friend,  Dr.  Hebraist.  The  charms  of  your  con¬ 
versation  carry  me  away.  And  indeed,  I  have  seldom 
the  happiness  to  meet  a  gentleman  so  well-informed  as 
yourself.  I  confess,  sir,  I  confess  that  I  still  retain  the 
tastes  of  my  boyhood;  the  Muses  cradled  my  childhood, 
they  now  smooth  the  pillow  on  my  footstool — Quern  tu , 
Melpomene,  &c. — You  are  not  yet  subject  to  gout,  dira 


*  The  learned  understand  the  reason  of  art,  the  unlearned  the  pleasure, 


Xi  o  GENE  ARAM. 


85 


podagra.  By  the  way,  how  is  the  worthy  doctor  since 
his  attack?  —  Ah,  see  now,  if  you  have  not  still,  by  youf 
delightful  converse,  kept  me  from  his  letter  —  yet,  posi¬ 
tively  I  need  no  introduction  to  you :  Apollo  has  already 
presented  you  to  me.  And  as  for  the  Doctor’s  letter,  1 
will  read  it  after  dinner;  for  as  Seneca - ” 

“I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousaud  times,  sir,”  said  Wal¬ 
ter,  who  began  to  despair  of  ever  coming  to  the  matter, 
which  seemed  lost  sight  of  beneath  this  battery  of  erudi¬ 
tion,  “but  you  will  find  by  Dr.  Hebraist’s  letter,  that  it 
is  only  on  business  of  the  utmost  importance  that  I  have 
presumed  to  break  in  upon  the  learned  leisure  of  Mr. 
Jonas  Elmore. 

“Business!”  replied  Mr.  Elmore,  producing  his  spec¬ 
tacles,  and  deliberately  placing  them  athwart  his  nose, 

“  ‘His  inane  edictum,  post  prandia  Callirlioen,’  &c. 

Business  in  the  morning,  and  the  ladies  after  dinner. 
Well,  sir,  I  will  yield  to  you  in  the  one,  and  you  must 
yield  to  me  in  the  other:  I  will  open  the  letter,  and  you 
shali  dine  here,  and  be  introduced  to  Mrs.  Elmore. 
What  is  your  opinion  of  the  modern  method  of  folding 
letters?  I — but  I  see  you  are  impatient.”  Here  Mr. 
Elmore  at  length  broke  the  seal;  and  to  Walter’s  great 
joy,  fairly  read  the  contents  within. 

“  Oh !  I  see,  I  see  !  ”  he  said,  refolding  the  epistle,  and 
placing  it  in  his  pocket-book;  “my  friend,  Dr.  Hebraist, 
says  you  are  anxious  to  be  informed  whether  Mr.  Clarke 
ever  received  the  legacy  of  my  poor  cousin,  Colonel 


86 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Elmore;  and  if  so,  any  tidings  I  can  give  you  of  Mr. 
Clarke  liimself,  or  any  clue  to  discover  him,  will  be  highly 
acceptable.  I  gather,  sir,  from  my  friend’s  letter,  that 
this  is  the  substance  of  your  business  with  me,  caput  ne - 
gotii;  —  although,  like  Timanthes,  the  painter,  he  leaves 
more  to  be  understood  than  is  described,  1  intelligilur 
plus  quam  pingitur ,’  as  Pliny  has  it.” 

“Sir,”  said  Walter,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  Mr. 
Elmore,  and  his  anxiety  forcing  itself  to  his  countenance, 
“that  is  indeed  the  substance  of  my  business  with  you; 
and  so  important  will  be  any  information  you  can  give 
me,  that  I  will  esteem  it  a - ” 

“Not  a  very  great  favor,  eh?  —  not  very  great!” 

“Yes,  indeed,  a  very  great  obligation.” 

“I  hope  not,  sir;  for  what  says  Tacitus  —  that  pro¬ 
found  reader  of  the  human  heart  ?  —  ‘  beneficia  eo  usque 
Iceta  sunt,’  &c. ;  favors  easily  repaid  beget  affection — - 
favors  beyond  return  engender  hatred.  But,  sir,  a  truce 
to  trifling;”  and  here  Mr.  Elmore  composed  his  counte¬ 
nance,  and  changed, —  which  he  could  do  at  will,  so  that 
the  change  was  not  expected  to  last  long  —  the  pedant 
for  the  man  of  business. 

“Mr.  Clarke  did  receive  his  legacy:  the  lease  of  the 
house  at  Knaresborough  was  also  sold  by  his  desire,  and 
produced  the  sum  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds; 
which  being  added  to  the  farther  sum  of  a  thousand 
pounds,  which  was  bequeathed  to  him,  amounted  to  sev¬ 
enteen  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  It  so  happened,  that 
my  cousin  had  possessed  some  very  valuable  jewels,  which 


EUGENE  ARAM.  S7 

were  bequeathed  to  myself.  I,  sir,  studious,  and  a  culti¬ 
vator  of  the  Muse,  had  no  love  and  no  use  for  these 
baubles;  I  preferred  barbaric  gold  to  barbaric  pearl: 
and  knowing  that  Clarke  had  been  in  India,  whence 
these  jewels  had  been  brought,  I  showed  them  to  him, 
and  consulted  his  knowledge  on  these  matters,  as  to  the 
best  method  of  obtaining  a  sale.  He  offered  to  pur¬ 
chase  them  of  me,  under  the  impression  that  he  could 
turn  them  to  a  profitable  speculation  in  London.  Accord¬ 
ingly  we  came  to  terms:  I  sold  the  greater  part  of  them 
to  him  for  a  sum  a  little  exceeding  a  thousand  pounds. 
He  was  pleased  with  his  bargain ;  and  came  to  borrow 
the  rest  of  me,  in  order  to  look  at  them  more  consider¬ 
ately  at  home,  and  determine  whether  or  not  he  should 
buy  them  also.  Well,  sir  (but  here  comes  the  remarka¬ 
ble  part  of  the  story),  about  three  days  after  this  last 
event,  Mr.  Clarke  and  my  jewels  both  disappeared  in 
rather  a  strange  and  abrupt  manner.  In  the  middle  of 
the  night  he  left  his  lodging  at  Knaresborough,  and 
never  returned;  neither  himself  nor  my  jewels  were  ever 
heard  of  more  !  ” 

“Good  Heavens!”  exclaimed  Walter,  greatly  agi¬ 
tated;  “what  was  supposed  to  be  the  cause  of  his  dis¬ 
appearance  ?  ” 

“That,”  replied  Elmore,  “was  never  positively  traced 
It  excited  great  surprise  and  great  conjecture  at  the  time. 
Advertisements  and  handbills  were  circulated  through 
ihe  country,  but  in  vain.  Mr.  Clarke  was  evidently  a 
man  of  eccentric  habits,  of  a  hasty  temper,  and  a  wan* 
8  * 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


$8 

Bering-  manner  of  life;  yet  it  is  scarcely  probable  that  he 
took  this  sudden  manner  of  leaving  the  country,  either 
from  whim  or  some  secret  but  honest  motive  never 
divulged.  The  fact  is,  that  he  owed  a  few  debts  in  the 
town  —  that  he  had  my  jewels  in  his  possession,  and  as 
(pardon  me  for  saying  this,  since  you  take  an  inter  .-st  in 
him)  his  connections  were  entirely  unknown  in  these 
parts,  and  his  character  not  very  highly  estimated, — ■ 
(whether  from  his  manner,  or  his  conversation,  or  some 
undefined  and  vague  rumors,  I  cannot  say,) — it  was  con¬ 
sidered  by  no  means  improbable  that  he  had  decamped 
with  his  property  in  this  sudden  manner  in  order  to  save 
himself  that  trouble  of  settling  accounts  which  a  more 
seemly  and  public  method  of  departure  might  have  render¬ 
ed  necessary.  A  man  by  the  name  of  Houseman,  with 
whom  he  was  acquainted  (a  resident  in  Knaresborough), 
declared  that  Clarke  had  borrowed  rather  a  considerable 
sum  from  him,  and  did  not  scruple  openly  to  accuse  him 
of  the  evident  design  to  avoid  repayment.  A  few  more 
dark  but  utterly  groundless  conjectures  were  afloat  ;  and 
since  the  closest  search,  the  minutest  inquiry,  was  em¬ 
ployed  without  any  result,  the  supposition  that  he  might 
have  been  robbed  and  murdered  was  strongly  entertained 
for  some  time;  but  as  his  body  was  never  found,  nor  sus¬ 
picion  directed  against  any  particular  person,  these  con¬ 
jectures  insensibly  died  away;  and  being  so  complete  a 
stranger  to  these  pans,  the  very  circumstance  of  his  dis¬ 
appearance  was  not  likely  to  occupy,  for  very  long,  the 
attention  of  that  old  gossip  the  Public,  who,  even  in  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


89 


remotest  parts,  has  a  thousand  topics  to  fill  up  her  time 
and  talk.  And  now,  sir,  I  think  you  know  as  much  of 
the  particulars  of  the  case  as  any  one  in  these  parts  can 
inform  you.” 

We  may  imagine  the  various  sensations  which  this  un¬ 
satisfactory  intelligence  caused  in  the  adventurous  son 
of  the  lost  wanderer.  He  continued  to  throw  out  addi¬ 
tional  guesses,  and  to  make  farther  inquiries  concerning 
a  tale  which  seemed  to  him  so  mysterious,  but  without 
effect;  and  he  had  the  mortification  to  perceive,  that  the 
shrewd  Jonas  was,  in  his  own  mind,  fully  convinced  that 
the  permanent  disappearance  of  Clarke  was  accounted 
for  only  by  the  most  dishonest  motives. 

“And,”  added  Elmore,  “I  am  confirmed  in  this  belief 
by  discovering  afterwards,  from  a  tradesman  in  York 
who  had  seen  my  cousin’s  jewels,  that  those  I  had  trusted 
to  Mr.  Clarke’s  hands  were  more  valuable  than  I  had 
imagined  them,  and  therefore  it  was  probably  worth  his 
while  to  make  off  with  them  as  quietly  as  possible.  He 
went  on  foot,  leaving  his  horse,  a  sorry  nag,  to  settle 
with  me  and  the  other  claimants:  — 

I,  pedes  quo  te  rapiunt  et  aurae  !  ’  ”  * 

“Heavens!”  thought  Walter,  sinking  back  in  his 
chair  sickened  and  disheartened,  “what  a  parent,  if  the 
opinions  of  all  men  who  knew  him  be  true,  do  I  thus 
zealously  seek  to  recover  I  ” 

*  Go,  where  your  feet  and  fortune  take  you. 


m 


90 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  good-natured  Elmore,  perceiving  the  unwelcome 
and  painful  impression  his  account  had  produced  on  his 
young  guest,  now  exerted  himself  to  remove,  or  at  least 
to  lessen  it ;  and,  turning  the  conversation  into  a  classi¬ 
cal  channel,  which  with  him  was  the  Lethe  to  all  cares,  he 
soon  forgot  that  Clarke  had  ever  existed,  in  expatiating 
on  the  unappreciated  excellencies  of  Propertius,  who,  to 
his  mind,  was  the  most  tender  of  all  elegiac  poets,  solely 
because  he  was  the  most  learned.  Fortunately  this  vein 
of  conversation,  however  tedious  to  Walter,  preserved 
him  from  the  necessity  of  rejoinder,  and  left  him  to  the 
quiet  enjoyment  of  his  own  gloomy  and  restless  reflec¬ 
tions. 

At  length  the  time  touched  upon  dinner:  Elmore, 
starting  up,  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  in  order  to 
present  the  handsome  stranger  to  the  placens  uxor — 
the  pleasing  wife,  whom,  in  passing  through  the  hall,  he 
eulogized  with  an  amazing  felicity  of  diction. 

The  object  of  these  praises  was  a  tall,  meagre  lady,  in 
a  yellow  dress  carried  up  to  the  chin,  and  who  added  a 
slight  squint  to  the  charms  of  red  hair,  ill  concealed  by 
powder,  and  the  dignity  of  a  prodigiously  high  nose. 
“There  is  nothing,  sir,”  said  Elmore, —  “nothing,  believe 
me,  like  matrimonial  felicity.  Julia,  my  dear,  I  trust  the 
chickens  will  not  be  over-done.” 

“Indeed,  Mr.  Elmore,  I  cannot  tell;  I  did  not  boil 
them.” 

“  Sir,”  said  Elmore,  turning  to  his  guest,  “  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  will  agree  with  me,  but  I  think  a  slight  ten- 

0 


EUGENE  ARAM 


91 


dency  to  gourmandism  is  absolutely  necessary  to  com 
plete  the  character  of  a  truly  classical  mind.  So  many 
beautiful  touches  are  there  in  the  ancient  poets  —  so 
many  delicate  allusions  in  history  and  in  anecdote  re¬ 
lating  to  the  gratification  of  the  palate,  that,  if  a  man 
have  no  correspondent  sympathy  with  the  illustrious  epi¬ 
cures  of  old,  he  is  rendered  incapable  of  enjoying  the 

most  beautiful  passages  that - Come,  sir,  the  dinner 

is  served :  — 

‘Nutrimus  lautis  mollissima  corpora  mensis,’”  * 

As  they  crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room,  a  young 
lady,  whom  Elmore  hastily  announced  as  his  only  daugh¬ 
ter,  appeared  descending  the  stairs,  having  evidently  re¬ 
tired  for  the  purpose  of  re-arranging  her  attire  for  the 
conquest  of  the  stranger.  There  was  something  in  Miss 
Elmore  that  reminded  Walter  of  Ellinor,  and,  as  the 
likeness  struck  him,  he  felt,  by  the  sudden  and  involun¬ 
tary  sigh  it  occasioned,  how  much  the  image  of  his  _ 
sousin  had  lately  gained  ground  upon  his  heart. 

Nothing  of  any  note  occurred  during  dinner,  until  the 
appearance  of  the  second  course,  when  Elmore,  throwing 
himself  back  with  an  air  of  content,  which  signified  that 
the  first  edge  of  his  appetite  was  blunted,  observed, — 

“  Sir,  the  second  course  I  always  opine  to  be  the  more 
dignified  and  rational  part  of  a  repast, — 

‘Quod  nunc  ratio  est,  impetus  ante  fuit.’”  -j- 


*  We  nourish  softest  bodies  at  luxurious  banquets. 

+  That ,  which  is  now  reason ,  at  first  was  but  desire. 


92 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


‘‘Ah!  Mr.  Elmore,”  said  the  lady,  glancing  towards  a 
brace  of  very  fine  pigeons,  “I  cannot  tell  you  how  vexed 
I  am  at  a  mistake  of  the  gardener’s ;  you  remember  my 
poor  pet  pigeons,  so  attached  to  each  other  —  would  not 
mix  with  the  rest  —  quite  an  inseparable  friendship,  Mr. 
Lester  —  well,  they  were  killed,  by  mistake,  for  a  couple 
of  vulgar  pigeons.  Ah  !  I  could  not  touch  a  bit  of  them 
for  the  world.” 

“My  love,”  said  Elmore,  pausing,  and  with  great  so¬ 
lemnity,  “hear  how  beautiful  a  consolation  is  afforded  to 
you  in  Valerius  Maximus:  —  ‘Ubi  idem  et  maximus  et 
honestissimus  amor  est,  aliquando  praestat  morte  jungi 
quam  vita  distrai !  ’  which,  being  interpreted,  means,  that 
wherever,  as  in  the  case  of  your  pigeons,  a  thoroughly 
high  and  sincere  affection  exists,  it  is  sometimes  better  to 
be  joined  in  death  than  divided  in  life  — Give  me  half 
the  fatter  one,  if  you  please,  Julia.” 

“Sir,”  said  Elmore,  when  the  ladies  withdrew,  “I  can¬ 
not  tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  to  meet  with  a  gentleman 
so  deeply  imbued  with  classic  lore.  I  remember,  several 
years  ago,  before  my  poor  cousin  died,  it  was  my  lot, 
when  I  visited  him  at  Knaresborough,  to  hold  some  de¬ 
lightful  conversations  on  learned  matters  with  a  very 
rising  young  scholar  who  then  resided  at  Knaresborough, 
—  Eugene  Aram.  Conversations  as  difficult  to  obtain 
as  delightful  to  remember,  for  he  was  exceedingly  re¬ 
served.” 

“Aram!”  repeated  Walter. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


93 


“What!  you  know  him  then?  —  and  where  does  he 
live  now?” 

“In  - ,  very  near  my  uncle’s  residence.  He  is 

certainly  a  remarkable  man.” 

“Yes,  indeed  he  promised  to  become  so.  At  the  time 
I  refer  to,  he  was  poor  to  penury,  and  haughty  as  poor; 
but  it  was  wonderful  to  note  the  iron  energy  with  which 
he  pursued  his  progress  to  learning.  Never  did  I  see  a 
youth, —  at  that  time  he  was  no  more, —  so  devoted  to 
knowledge  for  itself. 

‘  Doctrinse  pretiura  triste  magister  habet.’  * 

“Methinks,”  added  Elmore,  “I  can  see  him  now, 
stealing  away  from  the  haunts  of  men 

With  even  step  and  musing  gait,’ 

across  the  quiet  fields,  or  into  the  woods,  whence  he  was 
certain  not  to  reappear  till  nightfall.  Ah !  he  was  a 
strange  and  solitary  being,  but  full  of  genius,  and  pro¬ 
mise  of  bright  things  hereafter.  I  have  often  heard  since 
of  his  fame  as  a  scholar,  but  could  never  learn  where  he 
lived,  or  what  was  now  his  mode  of  life.  Is  he  yet 
married  ?  ” 

“Not  yet,  I  believe:  but  he  is  not  now  so  absolutely 
poor  as  you  describe  him  to  have  been  then,  though  cer¬ 
tainly  far  from  rich.” 

“Yes,  yes,  I  remember  that  he  received  a  legacy  from 
a  relation  shortly  before  he  left  Knaresborough.  He  had 


*  The  master  hat  but  sorry  remuneration  for  Ids  teaching . 


94 


EUGENE  ARAM 


very  delicate  health  at  that  time :  has  he  grown  stronger 
with  increasing  years  ?  ” 

“  He  does  not  complain  of  ill  health.  And  pray,  was 
he  then  of  the  same  austere  and  blameless  habits  of  life 
that  he  now  professes?” 

“Nothing  could  be  so  faultless  as  his  character  ap¬ 
peared;  the  passions  of  youth  —  (ah  1  I  was  a  wild  fel¬ 
low  at  his  age,)  never  seemed  to  venture  near  one  — 

‘  Quem  casto  erudit  docta  Minerva  simi.*  * 

Well,  I  am  surprised  he  has  not  married.  We  scholars, 
sir,  fall  in  love  with  abstractions,  and  fancy  the  first 
woman  we  see  is - Sir,  let  us  drink  the  ladies.” 

The  next  day  Walter,  having  resolved  to  set  out  for 
Knaresborough,  directed  his  course  towards  that  town ; 
he  thought  it  yet  possible  that  he  might,  by  strict  per¬ 
sonal  inquiry,  continue  the  clue  that  Elmore’s  account 
had,  to  present  appearance,  broken.  The  pursuit  in 
which  he  was  engaged,  combined,  perhaps,  with  the  early 
disappointment  in  his  affections,  had  given  a  grave  and 
solemn  tone  to  a  mind  naturally  ardent  and  elastic.  His 
character  acquired  an  earnestness  and  a  dignity  from  late 
events;  and  all  that  once  had  been  hope  within  him,  deep¬ 
ened  into  thought.  As  now,  on  a  gloomy  and  clouded  day, 
he  pursued  his  course  along  a  bleak  and  melancholy 
road,  his  mind  was  filled  with  that  dark  presentiment  — 
that  shadow  from  the  coming  event,  which  superstition 
believes  the  herald  of  the  more  tragic  discoveries  or  the 


*  Whom  wise  Minerva  taught  with  bosom  chaste. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


95 


more  fearful  incidents  of  life:  he  felt  steeled  and  pre*. 
pared  for  some  dread  denotement,  to  a  journey  to  which 
the  hand  of  Providence  seemed  to  conduct  his  steps ;  and 
he  looked  on  the  shroud  that  Time  casts  over  all  beyond 
the  present  moment  with  the  same  intense  and  painful 
resolve,  with  which,  in  the  tragic  representations  of  life, 
we  await  the  drawing  up  of  the  curtain  before  the  last 
act,  w^hich  contains  the  catastrophe,  that,  while  we  long, 
we  half  shudder  to  behold. 

Meanwdiile,  in  following  the  adventures  of  Walter 
Lester,  we  have  greatly  outstripped  the  progress  of 
events  at  Grassdale,  and  thither  we  now  return. 


II.—  9 


z 


96 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

aram’s  departure.  —  Madeline.  —  exaggeration  of 

SENTIMENT  NATURAL  IN  LOVE.  —  MADELINE’S  LETTER. — 
WALTER’S.  —  THE  WALK,  —  TWO  VERY  DIFFERENT  PER¬ 
SONS,  YET  BOTH  INMATES  OF  THE  SAME  COUNTRY  VIL¬ 
LAGE. - THE  HUMORS  OF  LIFE,  AND  ITS  DARK  PASSIONS, 

ARE  FOUND  IN  JUXTAPOSITION  EVERYWHERE. 


“  Her  thoughts  as  pure  as  the  chaste  morning’s  breath, 
When  from  the  Night’s  cold  arms  it  creeps  away, 

Were  clothed  in  words.” 

Detraction  Execrated ,  by  Sir  J.  Suckling. 

“  Urticse  proxima  ssepe  rosa  est.”  *  —  Ovid. 

“You  positively  leave  us  then  to-day,  Eugene?”  said 
the  squire. 

“Indeed,”  answered  Aram,  “I  hear  from  my  creditor 
(now  no  longer  so,  thanks  to  you,)  that  my  relation  is  sc 
dangerously  ill,  that,  if  I  have  any  wish  to  see  her  alive, 
I  have  not  an  hour  to  lose.  It  is  the  last  surviving  rela 
tive  I  have  in  the  world.” 

“I  can  say  no  more,  then,”  rejoined  the  squire,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders.  “When  do  you  expect  to  return?” 

“At  least,  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  wedding,’ 
answered  Aram,  with  a  grave  and  melancholy  smile. 


*  The  rose  is  often  nearest  to  the  nettle. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


97 


“  Well,  can  you  find  time,  think  you,  to  call  at  the 
lodging  in  which  my  nephew  proposed  to  take  up  his 
abode, —  my  old  lodging;  —  I  will  give  you  the  address, 
• — and  inquire  if  Walter  has  been  heard  of  there:  I  con¬ 
fess  that  I  feel  considerable  alarm  on  his  account.  Since 
that  short  and  hurried  letter  that  I  read  to  you,  I  have 
heard  nothing  of  him.” 

“You  may  rely  on  my  seeing  him  if  in  London,  and 
faithfully  reporting  to  you  all  that  I  can  learn  towards 
removing  your  anxiety.” 

“I  do  not  doubt  it;  no  heart  is  so  kind  as  yours,  Eu¬ 
gene.  You  will  not  depart  without  receiving  the  addi¬ 
tional  sum  you  are  entitled  to  claim  from  me,  since  you 
think  it  may  be  useful  to  you  in  London,  should  you  find 
a  favorable  opportunity  of  increasing  your  annuity.  And 
now  I  will  no  longer  detain  you  from  taking  your  leave 
of  Madeline.” 

The  plausible  story  which  Aram  had  invented,  of  the 
illness  and  approaching  death  of  his  last  living  relation, 
was  readily  believed  by  the  simple  family  to  whom  it  was 
told  ;  and  Madeline  herself  checked  her  tears,  that  she 
might  not,  for  his  sake,  sadden  a  departure  that  seemed 
inevitable.  Aram  accordingly  repaired  to  London  that 
day;  the  one  that  followed  the  night  which  witnessed  his 
fearful  visit  to  the  Devil’s  Crag. 

It  is  precisely  at  this  part  of  my  history  that  I  love  to 
pause  for  a  moment;  a  sort  of  breathing  interval  be¬ 
tween  the  cloud  that  has  been  long  gathering,  and  the 


93 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


storm  that  is  about  to  burst.  And  this  interval  is  noi 
without  its  fleeting  gleam  of  quiet  and  holy  sunshine. 

It  was  Madeline’s  first  absence  from  her  lover  since 
their  vows  had  plighted  them  to  each  other;  and  that 
first  absence,  when  softened  by  so  many  hopes  as  smiled 
upon  her,  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  touching  passages 
in  the  history  of  a  woman’s  love.  It  is  marvellous  how 
many  things,  unheeded  before,  suddenly  become  dear. 
She  then  feels  what  a  power  of  consecration  there  was  in 
the  mere  presence  of  the  one  beloved ;  the  spot  he  touch¬ 
ed,  the  book  he  read,  have  become  a  part  of  him  —  are 
no  longer  inanimate  —  are  inspired,  and  have  a  being  and 
a  voice.  And  the  heart,  too,  soothed  in  discovering  so 
many  new  treasures,  and  opening  so  delightful  a  world 
of  memory,  is  not  yet  acquainted  with  that  weariness  — 
that  sense  of  exhaustion  and  solitude,  which  are  the  true 
pains  of  absence,  and  belong  to  the  absence,  not  of  hope 
but  regret. 

“You  are  cheerful,  dear  Madeline,”  said  Ellinor^ 
“though  you  did  not  think  it  possible,  and  he  not  here!  ” 

“I  am  occupied,”  replied  Madeline,  “in  discovering 
how  much  I  loved  him.” 

We  do  wrong  when  we  censure  a  certain  exaggera¬ 
tion  in  the  sentiments  of  those  who  love.  True  passion 
is  necessarily  heightened  by  its  very  ardor  to  an  elevation 
that  seems  extravagant  only  to  those  who  cannot  feel  it. 
The  lofty  language  of  a  hero  is  a  part  of  his  character; 
without  that  largeness  of  idea,  he  had  not  been  a  nero. 
With  love,  it  is  the  same  as  with  glory:  what  common 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


99 


minds  would  call  natural  in  sentiment,  merely  because  it 
is  homely,  is  not  natural,  except  to  tamed  affections. 
That  is  a  very  poor,  nay,  a  very  coarse,  love,  in  which 
the  imagination  makes  not  the  greater  part.  And  the 
Frenchman,  who  censured  the  love  of  his  mistress  because 
it  was  so  mixed  with  the  imagination,  quarrelled  with 
the  body  for  the  soul  which  inspired  and  preserved  it. 

Yet  we  do  not  say  that  Madeline  was  so  possessed  by 
the  confidence  of  her  love,  that  she  did  not  admit  the 
intrusion  of  a  single  doubt  or  fear.  When  she  recalled 
the  frequent  gloom  and  moody  fitfulness  of  her  lover  — 
his  strange  and  mysterious  communings  with  self — the 
sorrow  which,  at  times,  as  on  that  Sabbath  eve  when  he 
wept  upon  her  bosom,  appeared  suddenly  to  come  upon 
a  nature  so  calm  and  stately,  and  without  a  visible  cause  ; 
when  she  recalled  all  these  symptoms  of  a  heart  now  at 
rest,  it  was  not  possible  for  her  to  reject  altogether  a 
certain  vague  and  dreary  apprehension.  Nor  did  she 
herself,  although  to  Ellinor  she  so  affected,  ascribe  this 
cloudiness  a,nd  caprice  of  mood  merely  to  the  result  of 
a  solitary  and  meditative  life;  she  attributed  them  to  the 
influence  of  an  early  grief,  perhaps  linked  with  the  affec¬ 
tions,  and  did  not  doubt  that  at  one  day  or  another  she 
should  learn  the  secret.  As  for  remorse  —  the  memory 
of  any  former  sin, — a  life  so  austerely  blameless,  a  disposi¬ 
tion  so  prompt  to  the  activity  of  good,  and  so  enamour¬ 
ed  of  its  beauty— a  mind  so  cultivated,  a  temper  so 
gentle,  and  a  heart  so  easily  moved  —  all  would  have 
forbidden,  to  natures  far  more  suspicious  than  Madeline’s, 
9  * 


100 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  conception  of  such  a  thought.  And  so,  with  a 
patient  gladness,  though  not  without  some  mixture  of 
anxiety,  she  suffered  herself  to  glide  onward  to  a  future, 
which,  come  cloud,  come  shine,  was,  she  believed  at 
least,  to  be  shared  with  him. 

On  looking  over  the  various  papers  from  which  I 
have  woven  this  tale,  I  find  a  letter  from  Madeline  to 
Aram,  dated  at  this  time.  The  characters,  traced  in  the 
delicate  and  fair  Italian  hand  coveted  at  that  period, 
are  fading,  and  in  one  part  wholly  obliterated  by  time; 
but  there  seems  to  me  so  much  of  what  is  genuine  in  the 
heart’s  beautiful  romance  in  this  effusion,  that  I  will  lay 
t  before  the  reader  without  adding  or  altering  a  word :  — . 

“Thank  you  —  thank  you,  dearest  Eugene!  —  I  have 
received,  then,  the  first  letter  you  ever  wrote  me.  I  can¬ 
not  tell  you  how  strange  it  seemed  to  me,  and  how  agi¬ 
tated  I  felt,  on  seeing  it;  more  so,  I  think,  than  if  it  had 
been  yourself  who  had  returned.  However,  when  the 
first  delight  of  reading  it  faded  away,  I  found  that  it  had 
not  made  me  so  happy  as  it  ought  to  have  done  —  as  I 
thought  at  first  it  had  done.  You  seem  sad  and  melan¬ 
choly  ;  a  certain  nameless  gloom  appears  to  me  to  hang 
over  your  whole  letter.  It  affects  my  spirits  —  why  I 
know  not  —  and  my  tears  fall  even  while  I  read  the  assu¬ 
rances  of  your  unaltered,  unalterable  love:  and  yet  this 
assurance  your  Madeline  —  vain  girl! — never  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  disbelieves.  I  have  often  read  and  often  heard  of 
the  distiust  and  jealousy  that  accompany  love;  bur  I 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


101 


thin#  that  such  a  love  must  be  a  vulgar  and  low  senti¬ 
ment,  To  me  there  seems  a  religion  in  love,  and  its  very 
found  avion  is  in  faith.  You  say,  dearest,  that  the  noise 
and  stir  of  the  great  city  oppress  and  weary  you  even 
more  ti  an  you  had  expected.  You  say  those  harsh 
faces,  in  which  business,  and  care,  and  avarice,  and  ambi¬ 
tion,  write  their  lineaments,  are  wholly  unfamiliar  to  you ; 
you  turn  aside  to  avoid  them;  you  wrap  yourself  up  in 
your  solitary  feelings  of  aversion  to  those  you  see,  and 
you  call  upon  those  not  present  —  upon  your  Madeline  I 
And  would  that  your  Madeline  were  with  you  1  It  seems 
to  me  —  perhaps  you  will  smile  when  I  say  this  —  that  I 
alone  can  understand  you  —  I  alone  can  read  your  heart 
and  your  emotions;  and,  oh!  dearest  Eugene,  that  I 
could  read  also  enough  of  your  past  history  to  know  all 
that  has  cast  so  habitual  a  shadow  over  that  lofty  heart 
and  that  calm  and  profound  nature  !  You  smile  when  I 
ask  you;  but  sometimes  you  sigh, —  and  the  sigh  pleases 
and  soothes  me  better  than  the  smile.  ****** 
“We  have  heard  nothing  more  of  Walter,  and  my 
father  continues  to  be  seriously  alarmed  about  him. 
Your  account,  too,  corroborates  that  alarm.  It  is 
strange  that  he  has  not  yet  visited  London,  and  that  you 
can  obtain  no  clue  of  him.  He  is  evidently  still  in 
search  of  his  lost  parent,  and  following  some  obscure 
and  uncertain  track.  Poor  Walter!  God  speed  him! 
The  singular  fate  of  his  father,  and  the  many  conjectures 
respecting  him,  have,  I  believe,  preyed  on  Walter’s  mind 
more  than  he  acknowledged.  Elliuor  found  a  paper  in 


102 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


his  closet,  where  we  had  occasion  to  search  the  other 
day  for  something  belonging  to  my  father,  which  was 
scribbled  with  all  the  various  fragments  of  guess  or  infor¬ 
mation  concerning  my  uncle,  obtained  from  time  to  timef 
and  interspersed  with  some  remarks  by  Walter  himself 
that  affected  me  strangely.  It  seems  to  have  been,  from 
early  childhood,  the  one  desire  of  my  cousin  to  discover 
his  father’s  fate.  Perhaps  the  discovery  may  be  already 
made; — perhaps  my  long-lost  uncle  may  yet  be  present 
at  our  wedding. 

“You  ask  me,  Eugene,  if  I  still  pursue  my  botanical 
researches?  Sometimes  I  do;  but  the  flower  now  has 
no  fragrance,  and  the  herb  no  secret,  that  I  care  for; 
and  astronomy,  which  you  had  just  begun  to  teach  me, 
pleases  me  more;  the  flowers  charm  me  when  you  are 
present:  but  the  stars  speak  to  me  of  you  in  absence 
Perhaps  it  would  not  be  so,  had  I  loved  a  being  less 
exalted  than  you.  Every  one, —  even  my  father,  even 
Ellinor,  smile  when  they  observe  how  incessantly  I  think 
of  you  —  how  utterly  you  have  become  all  in  all  to  me. 
I  could  not  tell  this  to  you,  though  I  write  it :  is  it  not 
strange  that  letters  should  be  more  faithful  than  the 
tongue  ?  And  even  your  letter,  mournful  as  it  is,  seems 
to  me  kinder,  and  dearer,  and  more  full  of  yourself,  than, 
with  all  the  magic  of  your  language,  and  the  silver 
sweetness  of  your  voice,  your  spoken  words  are.  1  walk¬ 
ed  by  your  house  yesterday;  the  windows  were  closed; 
there  was  a  strange  air  of  lifelessness  and  dejection  about 
it.  Do  you  remember  the  evening  in  which  I  first  enter- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


103 

ed  that  house?  Do  you  —  or,  rather,  is  there  one  hour 
in  which  it  is  not  present  to  you  ?  For  me,  I  live  in  the 
past, — it  is  the  present  (which  is  without  you)  in  which 

1  have  no  life.  I  passed  into  the  little  garden,  that  with 

* 

your  own  hand  you  have  planted  for  me,  and  filled  with 
flowers.  Ellinor  was  with  me,  and  she  saw  my  lips  move. 
She  asked  me  what  I  was  saying  to  myself.  I  would  not 
tell  her;  —  I  was  praying  for  you,  my  kind,  my  beloved 
Eugene.  I  was  praying  for  the  happiness  of  your  future 
years, —  praying  that  I  might  requite  your  love.  When¬ 
ever  I  feel  the  most,  I  am  the  most  inclined  to  prayer. 
Sorrow,  joy,  tenderness,  all  emotion,  lift  up  inv  heart  to 
God.  And  what  a  delicious  overflow  of  the  heart  is 
prayer!  When  I  am  with  you  —  and  I  feel  that  you  love 
me  —  my  happiness  would  be  painful,  if  there  were  no 
God  whom  I  might  bless  for  its  excess.  Do  those  who 
Relieve  not  love?  —  have  they  deep  emotions?  —  can  they 
feel  truly  —  devotedly?  Why,  when  I  talk  thus  to  you, 
do  you  always  answer  me  with  that  chilling  and  mournful 
smile?  You  would  rest  religion  only  on  reason, —  as 
well  limit  love  to  the  reason  also! — what  were  either 
without  the  feelings  ? 

“When  —  when  —  when  will  you  return?  I  think  I 
love  you  now  more  than  ever.  I  think  I  have  more 
courage  to  tell  you  so.  So  many  things  I  have  to  say, — - 
so  many  events  to  relate.  For  what  is  not  an  event  to 
us?  the  least  incident  that  has  happened  to  either;  — 
the  very  fading  of  a  flower,  if  you  have  worn  it.  is  a 
whole  history  to  me. 


( 


104  ETQENE  ARAM. 

‘'Adieu,  God  bless  you;  God  reward  you;  God  keep 
your  heart  with  Him,  dearest,  dearest  Eugene.  And 
may  you  every  day  know  better  and  better  how  utterly 
you  are  loved  by  your 

“Madeline.” 

The  epistle  to  which  Lester  referred,  as  received  from 
Walter,  was  one  written  on  the  day  of  his  escape  from 
Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave,  a  short  note  rather  than  letter, 
which  ran  as  follows:  — 

“My  dear  Uncle, 

“I  have  met  with  an  accident,  which  confined  me  to 
my  bed ;  a  rencontre,  indeed,  with  the  knights  of  the 
road;  nothing  serious  (so  do  not  be  alarmed  !)  though 
the  doctor  would  fain  have  made  it  so.  I  am  just  about 
to  recommence  my  journey;  but  not  towards  London; 
on  the  contrary,  northward. 

“I  have,  partly  through  the  information  of  your  old 
friend,  Mr.  Courtland,  partly  by  accident,  found  what  I 
hope  may  prove  a  clue  to  the  fate  of  my  father.  I  am 
now  departing  to  put  this  hope  to  the  issue.  More  I 
would  fain  say;  but,  lest  the  expectation  should  prove 
fallacious,  I  will  not  dwell  on  circumstances  which  would, 
in  that  case,  only  create  in  you  a  disappointment  similar 
to  my  own.  Only  this  take  with  you,  that  my  father’s 
proverbial  good  luck  seems  to  have  visited  him  since 
your  latest  news  of  his  fate ;  a  legacy,  though  not  a 
large  one,  awaited  his  return  to  England  from  India: 
but  see  if  I  am  not  growing  prolix  already;  —  I  must 


EUGENE  ARAM.  105 

break  off  ir.  order  to  reserve  you  the  pleasure  (may  it  be 
so!)  of  a  full  surprise! 

“  God  bless  you,  my  dear  uncle  !  I  write  in  spirits  and 
hope.  Kindest  love  to  all  at  home. 

“Walter  Lester. 

“P.  S.  Tell  Ellinor  that  my  bitterest  misfortune,  in  the 
adventur.  I  have  referred  to,  was  to  be  robbed  of  her 
purse.  Will  she  knit  me  another?  By  the  way,  I  en¬ 
countered  Sir  Peter  Hales :  such  an  open-hearted,  gene¬ 
rous  fellow  as  you  said!  'thereby  hangs  a  tale.’” 

This  letter,  which  provoked  all  the  curiosity  of  our 
little  circle,  made  them  anxiously  look  forward  to  every 
post  for  additional  explanation,  but  that  explanation 
came  not;  and  they  were  forced  to  console  themselves 
with  the  evident  exhilaration  under  which  Walter  wrote, 
and  the  probable  supposition  that  he  delayed  further 
information  until  it  could  be  ample  and  satisfactory. 
“Knights  of  the  road,”  quoth  Lester,  one  day;  “I  won¬ 
der  if  they  were  any  of  the  gang  that  have  just  visited 
us.  Well,  but,  poor  boy!  he  does  not  say  whether  he 
has  any  money  left :  yet  if  he  were  short  of  the  gold,  he 
would  be  very  unlike  his  father  (or  his  uncle,  for  that 
matter)  had  he  forgotten  to  enlarge  on  that  subject,  how¬ 
ever  brief  upon  others.” 

“Probably,”  said  Ellinor,  “the  corporal  carried  the 
main  sum  about  him  in  those  well-stuffed  saddle-bags, 
and  it  was  only  the  purse  that  Walter  had  about  his  per¬ 
son  that  was  stolen;  and  it  is  clear  that  the  corpora! 


106 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


escaped,  as  he  mentions  nothing  about  that  excellent 
personage.” 

“A  shrewd  guess,  Nell;  but  pray,  why  should  Walter 
carry  the  purse  about  him  so  carefully  ?  Ah,  you  blush : 
well,  will  you  knit  him  another  ?  ” 

“  Pshaw,  papa !  Good-by ;  I  am  going  to  gather  you 
a  nosegay.” 

But  Ellinor  was  seized  with  a  sudden  fit  of  industry, 
and,  somehow  or  other,  she  grew  fonder  of  knitting  than 
ever. 

The  neighborhood  was  now  tranquil  and  at  peace;  the 
nightly  depredators  that  had  infested  the  green  valleys 
of  Grassdale  were  heard  of  no  more ;  it  seemed  a  sudden 
incursion  of  fraud  and  crime,  which  was  too  unnatural  to 
the  character  of  the  spot  invaded  to  do  more  than  to 
terrify  and  to  disappear.  The  truditur  dies  die;  the 
serene  steps  of  one  calm  day  chasing  another  returned, 
and  the  past  alarm  was  only  remembered  as  a  tempting 
subject  of  gossip  to  the  villagers,  and  (at  the  Hall)  a 
theme  of  eulogium  on  the  courage  of  Eugene  Aram. 

‘‘It  is  a  lovely  day,”  said  Lester  to  his  daughters,  as 
they  sat  at  the  window;  “come,  girls,  get  your  bonnets, 
and  let  us  take  a  walk  into  the  village.” 

“And  meet  the  postman,”  said  Ellinor,  archly. 

“Yes,”  rejoined  Madeline,  in  the  same  vein,  but  in  a 
whisper  that  Lester  might  not  hear:  “for  who  knows  but 
that  we  may  have  a  letter  from  Walter?” 

H  ow  prettily  sounds  such  raillery  on  virgin  lips/  No, 
no ;  nothing  on  earth  is  so  lovely  as  the  confidence  be- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


107 


tween  two  happy  sisters,  who  have  no  secrets  but  those 
of  a  guileless  love  to  reveal ! 

As  they  strolled  into  the  village  they  were  met  by 
Peter  Dealtry,  who  was  slowly  riding  home  on  a  large 
ass,  which  carried  himself  and  his  panniers  to  the  neigh¬ 
boring  market  in  a  more  quiet  and  luxurious  indolence 
of  action  than  would  the  harsher  motions  of  the  equine 
species. 

“A  fine  day,  Peter;  and  what  news  at  market?”  said 
Lester. 

“Corn  high,  hay  dear,  your  honor,”  replied  the  clerk. 

“Ah,  I  suppose  so;  a  good  time  to  sell  ours,  Peter: 
we  must  see  about  it  on  Saturday.  But  pray,  have  you 
heard  any  thing  from  the  corporal  since  his  departure  ?  ” 

“Not  I,  your  honor,  not  I;  though  I  think  as  he 
might  have  given  us  a  line,  if  it  was  only  to  thank  me 
for  my  care  of  his  cat;  but  — 

“Them  as  comes  to  go  to  roam, 

Thinks  slight  of  they  as  stays  at  home.’  ” 

“A  notable  distich,  Peter;  your  own  composition,  I 
warrant.  ” 

“Mine!  Lord  love  your  honor,  I  has  no  genius,  but  I 
has  memory;  and  when  them  ere  beautiful  lines  of  poet¬ 
ry-like  comes  into  my  head  they  stays  there,  and  stays 
till  they  pops  out  at  my  tongue  like  a  bottle  of  ginger- 
beer.  I  do  loves  poetry,  sir,  ’specially  the  sacred.” 

“  We  know  it, —  we  know  it.” 

“For  there  be  summut  in  it,”  continued  the  clerk, 
“which  smooths  a  man’s  heart  like  a  clothes-brush,  wipes 

IL  — 10 


108 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


away  the  dust  and  dirt,  and  sets  all  the  nap  right:  and  1 
thinks  as  how  ’tis  what  a  clerk  of  the  parish  ought  to 
study,  your  honor.” 

“Nothing  better;  you  speak  like  an  oracle.1’ 

“Now,  sir,  there  be  the  corporal,  honest  man,  what 
thinks  himself  mighty  clever, —  but  he  has  no  soul  for 
varse.  Lord  love  ye,  to  see  the  faces  he  makes  when  1 
tells  him  a  hymn  or  so;  ’tis  quite  wicked,  your  honor, — 
for  that’s  what  the  heathen  did,  as  you  well  know,  sir. 

‘  And  when  I  does  discourse  of  things 
Most  holy  to  their  tribe, 

What  does  they  do?  —  they  mocks  at  me, 

And  makes  my  harp  a  gibe.” 

’Tis  not  what  I  calls  pretty,  Miss  Ellinor.” 

“Certainly  not,  Peter;  I  wonder,  with  your  talents 
for  verse,  you  never  indulge  a  little  in  satire  against  such 
perverse  taste.” 

“Satire!  what’s  that?  Oh,  I  knows;  what  they  writes 

in  elections.  Why,  miss,  mayhap - ”  here  Peter  paused, 

and  winked  significantly  —  “but  the  corporal’s  a  passion¬ 
ate  man,  who  knows:  but  I  could  so  sting  him.  —  Aha! 
we’ll  see,  we’ll  see.  Do  you  know,  your  honor,”  —  here 
Peter  altered  his  air  to  one  of  serious  importance,  as  if 
about  to  impart  a  most  sagacious  conjecture,  “I  thinks 
there  be  one  reason  why  the  corporal  has  not  written  to 
me.” 

“And  what’s  that,  Peter?” 

“’Cause,  your  honor,  he’s  ashamed  of  his  writing:  I 
fancy  as  how  his  spelling  is  no  better  than  it  should  be. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


109 


— but  mum’s  the  word.  You  sees,  your  honor,  the  cor¬ 
poral’s  got  a  tarn  for  conversation-like ;  he  be  a  mighty 
fine  talker,  surely!  but  he  be  shy  of  the  pen;  ’tis  not 
every  man  what  talks  biggest  what’s  the  best  schollard  at 
bottom.  Why,  there’s  the  newspaper  I  saw  in  the  mar¬ 
ket  (for  I  always  sees  the  newspaper  once  a-week)  says 
as  how  some  of  them  great  speakers  in  the  parliament 
house  are  no  better  than  ninnies  when  they  gets  upon  pa¬ 
per;  and  that’s  the  corporal’s  case  I  sispect:  I  suppose 
as  how  they  can’t  spell  all  them  ere  long  words  they 
make  use  on.'  For  my  part,  I  thinks  there  be  mortal  de- 
sate  (deceit)  like  in  that  ere  public  speaking;  for  I 
knows  how  far  a  loud  voice  and  a  bold  face  goes,  even  in 
buying  a  cow,  your  honor;  and  I’m  afraid  the  country’s 
greatly  bubbled  in  that  ere  particklar;  for  if  a  man  can’t 
write  down  clearly  what  he  means  for  to  say,  I  does  not 
thinks  as  how  he  knows  what  he  means  when  he  goes  for 
to  speak !  ” 

This  speech  —  quite  a  moral  exposition  from  Peter, 
and,  doubtless,  inspired  by  his  visit  to  market  —  for  what 
wisdom  cannot  come  from  intercourse?  —  our  good  publi¬ 
can  delivered  with  especial  solemnity,  giving  a  huge 
thump  on  the  sides  of  his  ass  as  he  concluded. 

“Upon  my  word,  Peter,”  said  Lester,  laughing,  “you 
have  grown  quite  a  Solomon ;  and,  instead  of  a  clerk, 
you  ought  to  be  a  justice  of  the  peace  at  the  least;  and, 
indeed,  I  must  say  that  I  think  you  shine  more  in  the 
capacity  of  a  lecturer  than  in  that  of  a  soldier.” 

“’Tis  not  for  a  clerk  of  the  parish  to  have  too  great  a 


110 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


knack  at  the  weapons  of  the  flesh,”  said  Peter,  sancti 
moniously,  and  turning  aside  to  conceal  a  slight  confu* 
sion  at  the  unlucky  reminiscence  of  his  warlike  exploits; 
“but  lauk,  sir,  even  as  to  that,  why,  we  has  frightened 
all  the  robbers  away.  What  would  you  have  us  do 
more  ?  ” 

“Upon  my  word,  Peter,  you  say  right;  and  now,  good 
day.  Your  wife’s  well,  I  hope?  And  Jacobina  (is  not 
that  the  cat’s  name?)  in  high  health  and  favor?” 

“Hem,  hem!  why,  to  be  sure,  the  cat’s  a  good  cat; 
but  she  steals  Goody  Truman’s  cream  as  Goody  sets  for 
butter  reg’larly  every  night.” 

“Oh  !  you  must  cure  her  of  that,”  said  Lester,  smiling. 
“I  hope  that’s  the  worst  fault.” 

“Why,  your  gardener  do  say,”  replied  Peter,  reluc¬ 
tantly,  “as  how  she  goes  arter  the  pheasants  in  Copse- 
hole.” 

“The  deuce!”  cried  the  squire :  “that  will  never  do : 
she  must  be  shot,  Peter,  she  must  be  shot.  My  phea¬ 
sants!  my  best  preserves!  and  poor  Goody  Truman’s 
cream,  too !  a  perfect  devil !  Look  to  it,  Peter ;  if  I 
hear  any  complaints  again,  Jacobina  is  done  for. — What 
are  you  laughing  at,  Nell?” 

“Well,  go  thy  ways  Peter,  for  a  shrewd  man  and  a 
clever  man ;  it  is  not  every  one  who  could  so  suddenly 
have  elicited  my  father’s  compassion  for  Goody  Truman’s 
cream.” 

“Pooh!”  said  the  squire:  “a  pheasant’s  a  serious 
thing,  child ;  but  you  women  don’t  understand  matters  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM 


111 


They  had  now  crossed  through  the  village  into  the 
fields,  and  were  slowly  sauntering  by 

“  Hedge-row  elms  on  hillocks  green,” 

when,  seated  under  a  stunted  pollard,  they  came  suddenly 
on  the  ill-favored  person  of  Dame  Darkmans.  She  sat 
bent  (with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  hands  sup¬ 
porting  her  chin),  looking  up  to  the  clear  autumnal  sky; 
and  as  they  approached,  she  did  not  stir,  or  testify  by 
sign  or  glance  that  she  even  perceived  them. 

There  is  a  certain  kind-hearted  sociability  of  temper 
that  you  see  sometimes  among  country  gentlemen,  espe¬ 
cially  not  of  the  highest  rank,  who  knowing,  and  looked 

0 

up  to  by,  every  one  immediately  around  them,  acquire 
the  habit  of  accosting  all  they  meet  —  a  habit  as  painful 
for  them  to  break,  as  it  was  painful  for  poor  Rousseau  to 
be  asked  “how  he  did”  by  an  apple-woman.  And  the 
kind  old  squire  could  not  pass  even  Goody  Darkmans 
(coming  thus  abruptly  upon  her)  without  a  salutation. 

“All  alone,  dame,  enjoying  the  fine  weather?  —  that’s 
right.  And  how  fares  it  with  you?” 

The  old  woman  turned  round  her  dark  and  bleared 
eyes,  but  without  moving  limb  or  posture. 

“’Tis  well-nigh  winter  now;  ’tis  not  easy  for  poor 
folks  to  fare  well  at  this  time  o’year.  Where  be  we  to 
get  the  firewood  and  the  clothing,  and  the  dry  bread, 
carse  it !  and  the  drop  o’ stuff1  that’s  to  keep  out  the  cold. 
Ah !  it’s  fine  for  you  to  ask  how  we  does,  and  the  days 
shortening,  and  the  air  sharpening.” 

10  *  2a 


112 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“Well,  dame,  shall  I  send  to  *  *  *  *  for  a  warm  cloak 
for  you?”  said  Madeline. 

“Ho!  thankye,  young  lady  —  thankye  kindly,  and  I’l\ 
wear  it  at  your  widding,  for  they  says  you  be  going  to 
git  married  to  the  larned  man  yander.  Wish  ye  well, 
ma’am;  wish  ye  well.” 

And  the  old  hag  grinned  as  she  uttered  this  benedic¬ 
tion,  that  sounded  on  her  lips  like  the  Lord’s  Prayer  on 
a  witch’s ;  which  converts  the  devotion  to  a  crime,  and 
the  prayer  to  a  curse. 

“Ye’re  very  winsome,  young  lady,”  she  continued,  eye¬ 
ing  Madeline’s  tall  and  rounded  figure  from  head  to  foot. 
“Yes,  very;  but  I  was  as  bonny  as  you  once,  and  if  you 
lives  —  mind  that — fair  and  happy  as  you  stand  now, 
you’ll  be  as  withered,  and  foul-faced,  and  wretched  as 
me.  Ha !  ha !  I  loves  to  look  on  young  folk,  and  think 
o’that.  But  mayhap  ye  won’t  live  to  be  old  —  more’s  the 
pity !  for  ye  might  be  a  widow,  and  childless,  and  a  lone 
’oman,  as  I  be;  if  you  were  to  see  sixty:  an’  wouldn’t 
that  be  nice?  —  ha!  ha!  —  much  pleasure  ye’d  have  in 
the  fine  weather  then,  and  in  other  people’s  fine  speech¬ 
es,  eh  ?  ” 

“  Come,  dame,”  said  Lester,  with  a  cloud  on  his  benign 
brow,  “this  talk  is  ungrateful  to  me,  and  disrespectful  to 
Miss  Lester;  it  is  not  the  way  to - ” 

“  Hout !  ”  interrupted  the  old  woman  ;  “I  begs  pardon, 
sir,  if  I  offended  —  I  begs  pardon,  young  lady:  ’tis  my 
way,  poor  old  soul  that  I  be.  And  you  meant  me  kindly 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


113 


and  I  would  not  be  uncivil,  now  you  are  a-going  to  give 
me  a  bonny  cloak ;  and  what  color  shall  it  be  ?  ” 

“Why,  what  color  would  you  like  best,  dame  —  red?” 

“Red!  no!  like  a  gypsy-quean,  indeed!  Besides, 
they  all  has  red  cloaks  in  the  village,  yander,  No;  a 
handsome  dark  grey,  or  a  gay,  cheersome  black,  an’  then 
I’ll  dance  in  mourning  at  your  wedding,  young  lady;  and 
that’s  what  ye’ll  like.  But  what  ha’  ye  done  with  the 
merry  bridegroom,  ma’am?  Gone  away,  I  hear.  Ah, 
ye’ll  have  a  happy  life  on  it,  with  a  gentleman  like  him. 
I  never  seed  him  laugh  once.  Why  does  not  he  hire  me 
as  your  sarvant;  would  not  I  be  a  favorite,  thin?  I’d 
stand  on  the  thrishold,  and  give  ye  good  morrow  every 
day.  Oh  !  it  does  me  a  deal  of  good  to  say  a  blessing 
to  them  as  be  younger  and  gayer  than  me.  Madge 
Darkman’s  blessing !  Och  !  what  a  thing  to  wish  for  !  ” 

“Well,  good  day,  mother,”  said  Lester,  moving  on. 

“Stay  a  bit,  stay  a  bit,  sir;  has  ye  any  commands, 
miss,  yander,  at  Master  Aram’s  ?  His  old  ’oman’s  a 
gossip  of  mine;  we  were  young  togither:  and  the  lads 
did  not  know  which  to  like  the  best.  So  we  often  meets 
and  talks  of  the  old  times.  I  be  going  up  there  now. 
Och !  I  hope  I  shall  be  asked  to  the  widding.  And 
what  a  nice  month  to  wid  in!  Novimber,  Novimber, 
that’s  the  merry  month  for  me!  But  ’tis  cold  —  bitter 
cold  too.  Well,  good  day,  good  day.  Ay,”  continued 
the  hag,  as  Lester  and  the  sisters  moved  on,  “ye  all  goes 
and  throws  niver  a  look  behind.  Ye  despises  the  poor 
in  your  hearts.  But  the  poor  will  have  their  day.  Och ! 


114 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


an*  I  wish  ye  were  all  dead,  dead,  dead,  an’  I  dancing  in 
rny  bonny  black  cloak  about  your  graves;  for  an’t  all 
mine  dead,  cold,  cold,  rotting,  and  one  kind  and  rich  man 
might  ha’  saved  them  all?” 

Thus  mumbling,  the  wretched  creature  looked  after 
the  father  and  his  daughters,  as  they  wound  onward,  till 
her  dim  eyes  caught  them  no  longer;  and  then,  drawing 
her  rags  round  her,  she  rose,  and  struck  into  the  oppo¬ 
site  path  that  led  to  Aram’s  house. 

“I  hope  that  hag  will  be  no  constant  visitor  at  your 
future  residence,  Madeline,”  said  the  younger  sister,  “it 
would  be  like  a  blight  on  the  air.” 

“And  if  we  could  remove  her  from  the  parish,”  said 
Lester,  “it  would  be  a  happy  day  for  the  village.  Yet, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  so  great  is  her  power  over  them 
all,  that  there  is  never  a  marriage  nor  a  christening  in 
the  village  from  which  she  is  absent;  they  dread  her 
spite  and  foul  tongue  enough,  to  make  them  even  ask 
humbly  for  her  presence.” 

“And  the  hag  seems  to  know  that  her  bad  qualities  are 
a  good  policy,  and  obtain  more  respect  than  amiability 
would  do,”  said  Ellinor.  “I  think  there  is  some  design 
in  all  she  utters.” 

1  I  don’t  know  how  it  is,  but  the  words  and  sight  of 
that  woman  have  struck  a  damp  into  my  heart,”  said 
Madeline,  musingly. 

“It  w'ould  be  wonderful  if  they  had  not.  child,”  said 
Lester,  soothingly;  and  he  changed  the  conversation  to 
other  topics. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


115 


As,  concluding  their  walk,  they  re-entered  the  village, 
they  encountered  that  most  welcome  of  all  visitants  to  a 
country  place,  the  postman  —  a  tall  thin  pedestrian, 
famous  for  swiftness  of  foot,  with  a  cheerful  face,  a  swing¬ 
ing  gait,  and  Lester’s  bag  slung  over  his  shoulder.  Our 
little  party  quickened  their  pace  —  one  letter  —  for  Made¬ 
line —  Aram’s  handwriting.  Happy  blush — bright  smile  1 
Ah !  no  meeting  ever  gives  the  delight  that  a  letter  can 
inspire  in  the  short  absences  of  a  first  love ! 

“And  none  for  me!”  said  Lester,  in  a  disappointed 
tone,  and  Ellinor’s  hand  hung  more  heavily  on  his  arm,  and 
her  step  moved  slower.  “It  is  very  strange  in  Walter; 
but  I  am  really  more  angry  than  alarmed.” 

“Be  sure,”  said  Ellinor,  after  a  pause,  “that  it  is  not 
his  fault.  Something  may  have  happened  to  him.  Good 
Heavens!  if  he  has  been  attacked  again  —  those  pearful 
highwaymen !  ” 

“Nay,”  said  Lester,  “the  most  probable  supposition 
after  all  is,  that  he  will  not  write  until  his  expectations 
are  realized  or  destroyed.  Natural  enough,  too'-  it  I. 
what  I  should  have  done,  if  1  had  been  in  his  place.” 

“Natural!”  said  Ellinor,  who  now  attacked  where  she 
before  defended  —  “Natural  not  to  give  us  one  line  to 
say  he  is  well  and  safe!  —  Natural!  I  could  not  have 
beer,  so  remiss !  ” 

“Ay,  child,  you  women  are  so  fond  of  writing:  ’tis 
not  so  with  us,  especially  when  we  are  moving  about:  — 
it  is  always  —  ‘Well,  I  must  write  to-morrow  —  well,  I 
must  write  when  this  is  settled  —  well,  I  must  write  when 


U6 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


I  arrive  at  such  a  place;’  —  and,  meanwhile,  time  slips 
on,  till  perhaps  we  get  ashamed  of  writing  at  all.  I 
heard  a  great  man  say  once,  that  ‘Men  must  have  some¬ 
thing  effeminate  about  them  to  be  good  correspondents; 
and  ’faith,  I  think  it’s  true  enough  on  the  whole.” 

“I  wonder  if  Madeline  thinks  so?”  said  Ellinor,  envi¬ 
ously  glancing  at  her  sister’s  absorption,  as  lingering  a 
little  behind,  she  devoured  the  contents  of  her  letter. 

“He  is  coming  home  immediately,  dear  father;  per¬ 
haps  he  may  be  here  to-morrow,”  cried  Madeline,  abrupt¬ 
ly;  “think  of  that,  Ellinor!  Ah!  and  he  writes  in  spir¬ 
its!” —  and  the  poor  girl  clapped  her  hands  delightedly, 
as  the  color  danced  joyously  over  her  cheek  and  neck. 

“I  am  glad  to  hear  it,”  quoth  Lester;  “we  shall  have 
him  at  last  beat  even  Ellinor  in  gaiety !  ” 

“That  may  easily  be,”  sighed  Ellinor  to  herself,  as  she 
glided  past  them  into  the  house,  and  sought  her  own 
chamber. 


4 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


in 


CHAPTER  Y. 

- 

A  REFLECTION  NEW  AND  STRANGE.  —  THE  STREETS  OF  LON 

DON. - A  GREAT  MAN’S  LIBRARY. - A  CONVERSATION 

BETWEEN  THE  STUDENT  AND  AN  ACQUAINTANCE  OF  THE 
READER’S. - ITS  RESULT. 


“  Here’s  a  statesman ! 
****** 

Rolla.  Ask  for  thyself. 

Lai.  What  more  can  concern  me  than  this  ?  ” 

The  Tragedy  of  Rolla. 

It  was  an  evening  in  the  declining  autumn  of  1158; 
some  public  ceremony  had  occurred  during  the  day,  and 
the  crowd  which  it  had  assembled  was  only  now  gradu¬ 
ally  lessening,  as  the  shadows  darkened  along  the 
streets.  Through  this  crowd,  self-absorbed  as  usual — - 
with  them,  not  one  of  them  —  Eugene  Aram  slowly 
wound  his  uncompanioned  way.  What  an  incalculable 
field  of  dread  and  sombre  contemplation  is  opened  to 
every  man  who,  with  his  heart  disengaged  from  himself, 
and  his  eyes  accustomed  to  the  sharp  observance  of  his 
tribe,  walks  through  the  streets  of  a  great  city !  What 
a  world  of  dark  and  troubled  secrets  in  the  breast  of 
every  one  who  hurries  by  you !  Goethe  has  said  some 
where  that  each  of  us,  the  best  as  the  worst,  hides  within 


118 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


him  something  —  some  feeling,  some  remembrance  that, 
if  known,  would  make  you  hate  him.  No  doubt  the 
saying  is  exaggerated;  but  still,  what  a  gloomy  and  pro¬ 
found  sublimity  in  the  idea!  —  what  a  new  insight  it 
gives  into  the  hearts  of  the  common  herd!  —  with  what  a 
strange  interest  it  may  inspire  us  for  the  humblest,  the 
tritest  passenger  that  shoulders  us  in  the  great  thorough¬ 
fare  of  life !  One  of  the  greatest  pleasures  in  the  world 
is  to  walk  alone,  and  at  night  (while  they  are  yet  crowd¬ 
ed),  through  the  long  lamp-lit  streets  of  this  huge  me¬ 
tropolis.  There,  even  more  than  in  the  silence  of  woods 
and  fields,  seems  to  me  the  source  of  endless,  various 
meditation. 

“  Crcscit  enim  cum  amplitudine  rerum  vis  ingeuii.”  * 

There  was  that  in  Aram’s  person  which  irresistibly 
commanded  attention.  The  earnest  composure  of  his 
countenance,  its  thoughtful  paleness,  the  long  hair  falling 
back,  the  peculiar  and  estranged  air  of  his  whole  figure, 
accompanied  as  it  was  by  a  mildness  of  expression,  and 
that  lofty  abstraction  which  characterizes  one  who  is  a 
brooder  over  his  own  heart — a  soothsayer  to  his  own 
dreams;  —  all  these  arrested  from  time  to  time  the  second 
gaze  of  the  passenger,  and  forced  on  him  the  impression, 
simple  as  was  the  dress,  and  unpretending  as  was  the 
gait  of  the  stranger,  that  in  indulging  that  second  gaze 
he  was  in  all  probability  satisfying  the  curiosity  which 

*  For  the  power  of  the  intellect  is  increased  by  the  amplitude  of  the 
things  that  feed  it. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


119 

makes  us  love  to  fix  our  regard  upon  any  remarkable 
man. 

At  length  Aram  turned  from  the  more  crowded  streets, 
and  in  a  short  time  paused  before  one  of  the  most  princely 
houses  in  London.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  spacious 
court-yard,  and  over  the  porch  the  arms  of  the  owner, 
with  the  coronet  and  supporters,  were  raised  in  stone. 

“  Is  Lord  *****  within  ?”  asked  Aram,  of  the  bluff 
porter  who  appeared  at  the  gate. 

“My  lord  is  at  dinner,”  replied  the  porter,  thinking  the 
answer  quite  sufficient,  and  about  to  reclose  the  gate 
upon  the  unseasonable  visitor. 

“I  am  glad  to  find  he  is  at  home,”  rejoined  Aram, 
gliding  past  the  servant  with  an  air  of  quiet  and  uncon¬ 
scious  command,  and  passing  the  court-yard  to  the  main 
building. 

At  the  door  of  the  house,  to  which  you  ascended  by  a 
flight  of  stone  steps,  the  valet  of  the  nobleman  —  the 
only  nobleman  introduced  in  our  tale,  and  consequently 
the  same  whom  we  have  presented  to  our  reader  in  the 
earlier  part  of  this  work,  happened  to  be  lounging  and 
enjoying  the  smoke  of  the  evening  air.  High-bred,  pru¬ 
dent,  and  sagacious,  Lord  *****  knew  wrell  how  often 
great  men,  especially  in  public  life,  obtain  odium  for  the 
rudeness  of  their  domestics;  and  all  those,  especially 
about  himself,  had  been  consequently  tutored  into  the 
habits  of  universal  courtesy  and  deference,  to  the  lowest 
stranger  as  wTell  as  to  the  highest  guest.  And  trifling 
as  this  may  seem,  it  was  an  act  of  morality  as  well  as 
II.  — 11 


120 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


of  prudence.  Few  can  guess  what  pain  may  be  saved  to 
poor  and  proud  men  of  merit  by  a  similar  precaution. 
The  valet,  therefore,  replied  to  the  visitor’s  inquiry  with 
great  politeness ;  he  recollected  Aram’s  name  and  repute ; 
and  as  the  earl,  taking  delight  in  the  company  of  men 
of  letters,  was  generally  e-asy  of  access  to  all  such-— the 
great  man’s  great  man  instantly  conducted  the  student  to 
the  earl’s  library,  and  informing  him  that  his  lordship  had 
not  yet  left  the  dining-room,  where  he  was  entertaining  a 
large  party,  assured  him  that  he  should  be  apprized  of 
Aram’s  visit  the  moment  he  did  so. 

Lord  *****  was  still  in  office;  sundry  boxes  were 
scattered  on  the  floor;  papers,  that  seemed  countless,  lay 
strewed  over  the  immense  library  table;  but  here  and 
there  were  books  of  a  more  seductive  character  than 
those  of  business,  in  which  the  mark  lately  set,  and  the 
pencilled  note  still  fresh,  showed  the  fondness  with  which 
men  of  cultivated  minds,  though  engaged  in  official  pur¬ 
suits,  will  turn  in  the  momentary  intervals  of  more  arid 
and  toilsome  life  to  those  lighter  studies  which  perhaps 
they  in  reality  the  most  enjoy. 

One  of  these  books,  a  volume  of  Shaftesbury,  Aram 
carefully  took  up :  it  opened  of  its  own  accord  at  that 
most  beautiful  and  profound  passage,  which  contains  per¬ 
haps  the  justest  sarcasm  to  which  that  ingenious  and 
graceful  reasoner  has  given  vent:  — 

“  The  very  spirit  of  Faction,  for  the  greatest  part, 
seems  to  be  no  other  than  the  abuse  or  irregularity  of 
that  social  love  and  common  affection  which  is  natural  to 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


121 


mankind  —  for  the  opposite  of  sociableness  is  selfishness; 
and  of  all  characters,  the  thorough  selfish  one  is  the  least 
forward  in  taking  party.  The  men  of  this  sort  are,  in 
this  respect,  true  men  of  moderation.  They  are  secure 
of  their  temper,  possess  themselves  too  well  to  be  in  dan¬ 
ger  of  entering  warmly  into  any  cause,  or  engaging 
deeply  with  any  side  or  faction.” 

On  the  margin  of  the  page  was  the  following  note,  in 
the  handwriting  of  Lord  ******  — 

“Generosity  hurries  a  man  into  party — philosophy 
keeps  him  aloof  from  it;  the  Emperor  Julian  says  in  his 
epistle  to  Themistius,  ‘If  you  should  form  only  three  or 
four  philosophers,  you  would  contribute  more  essentially 
to  the  happiness  of  mankind  than  many  kings  united. 1 
Yet,  if  all  men  were  philosophers,  I  doubt  whether, 
though  more  men  would  be  virtuous,  there  would  be  so 
many  instances  of  an  extraordinary  virtue.  The  violent 
passions  produce  dazzling  irregularities.” 

The  student  was  still  engaged  with  this  note  when  the 
earl  entered  the  room.  As  the  door  through  which  he 
passed  was  behind  Aram,  and  he  trod  with  a  soft  step,  he 
was  not  perceived  by  the  scholar  till  he  had  reached  him, 
and,  looking  over  Aram’s  shoulder,  the  earl  said:  “You 
will  dispute  the  truth  of  my  remark,  will  you  not? 
Profound  calm  is  the  element  in  which  you  would  place 
all  the  virtues.” 

“Not  all ,  my  lord,”  answered  Aram,  as  the  earl  now 
shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  expressed  his  delight  at  see¬ 
ing  the  student  again.  Though  the  sagacious  nobleman 


122 


EUGENE  ARAM 


had  no  sooner  heard  the  student’s  name,  than,  in  his  own 
neart,  he  was  convinced  that  Aram  had  sought  him  for 
the  purpose  of  soliciting  a  renewal  of  the  offers  he  had 
formerly  refused ;  he  resolved  to  leave  his  visitor  to  open 
the  subject  himself,  and  appeared  courteously  to  consider 
the  visit  as  a  matter  of  course,  made  without  any  other 
object  than  the  renewal  of  the  mutual  pleasure  of  inter¬ 
course. 

“I  am  afrai'd,  my  lord,”  said  Aram,  “that  you  are  en¬ 
gaged.  My  visit  can  be  paid  to-morrow,  if - ” 

“  Indeed,”  said  the  earl,  interrupting  him,  and  drawing 
a  chair  to  the  table,  “I  have  no  engagements  which 
should  deprive  me  of  the  pleasure  of  your  company.  A 
few  friends  have  indeed  dined  with  me,  but  as  they  are 
now  with  Lady  *  *  *  *  j  not  think  they  will  greatly 
miss  me;  besides,  an  occasional  absence  is  readily  for¬ 
given  in  us  happy  men  of  office;  —  we,  who  have  the 
honor  of  exciting  the  envy  of  all  England,  for  being 
made  magnificently  wretched.” 

“I  am  glad  you  allow  so  much,  my  lord,”  said  Aram, 
smiling;  “/  could  not  have  said  more.  Ambition  only 
makes  a  favorite  to  make  an  ingrate; — she  has  lavished 
her  honors  on  Lord  *  *  *  *  and  hear  how  he  speaks 
of  her  bounty  !  ” 

“Nay,”  said  the  earl,  “I  spoke  wantonly,  and  stand 
corrected.  I  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  course 
I  have  chosen.  Ambition,  like  any  other  passion,  gives 
us  unhappy  moments;  but  it  gives  us  also  an  animated 
life.  In  its  pursuit,  the  minor  evils  of  the  world  are  not 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


123* 


felt;  little  crosses,  little  vexations  do  not  disturb  us 
Like  men  who  walk  in  sleep,  we  are  absorbed  in  ona 
powerful  dream,  and  do  not  even  know  the  obstacles  in 
our  way,  or  the  dangers  that  surround  us :  in  a  word,  we 
have  no  private  life.  All  that  is  merely  domestic,  the 
anxiety  and  the  loss  which  fret  other  men,  which  blight 
the  happiness  of  other  men,  are  not  felt  by  us :  we  are 
wholly  public;  —  so  that  if  we  lose  much  comfort,  we 
escape  much  care.” 

The  earl  broke  off  for  a  moment;  and  then  turning 
the  subject,  inquired  after  the  Lesters,  and  making  some 
general  and  vague  observations  about  that  family,  came 
purposely  to  a  pause. 

Aram  broke  it:  — 

* 

“My  lord,”  said  he,  with  a  slight,  but  not  ungraceful, 
embarrassment,  “I  fear  that,  in  the  course  of  your  poli¬ 
tical  life,  you  must  have  made  one  observation, —  that  he 
who  promises  to-day,  will  be  called  on  to  perform  to¬ 
morrow.  No  man  who  has  anything  to  bestow,  can  ever 
promise  with  impunity.  Some  time  since,  you  tendered 
me  offers  that  would  have  dazzled  more  ardent  natures 
than  mine;  and  which  I  might  have  advanced  some 
claim  to  philosophy  in  refusing.  I  do  not  now  come  to 
ask  a  renewal  of  those  offers.  Public  life  and  the  haunts 
of  men,  are  as  hateful  as  ever  to  my  pursuits :  but  I 
come,  frankly  and  candidly,  to  throw  myself  on  that 
generosity,  which  proffered  to  me  then  so  large  a  bounty. 
Certain  circumstances  have  taken  from  me  the  small  pit¬ 
tance  which  supplied  my  wants; — I  require  only  the 
11  * 


124 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


power  to  pursue  my  quiet  and  obscure  career  of  study  — 
your  lordship  can  afford  me  that  power:  it  is  not  against 
custom  for  the  government  to  grant  some  small  annuity 
to  men  of  letters — your  lordship’s  interest  could  obtain 
me  this  favor.  Let  me  add,  however,  that  I  can  offer 
nothing  in  return  I  Party  politics  —  sectarian  interests 
—  are  for  ever  dead  to  me:  even  my  common  studies  are 
of  small  general  utility  to  mankind.  I  am  conscious  of 
this  —  would  it  were  otherwise  I  —  Once  I  hoped  it  would 

be  —  but - ”  Aram  here  turned  deadly  pale,  gasped 

for  breath,  mastered  his  emotion,  and  proceeded  —  “I 
have  no  great  claim,  then,  to  this  bounty,  beyond  that 
which  all  poor  cultivators  of  the  abstruse  sciences  can 
advance.  It  is  well  for  a  country  that  those  sciences 
should  be  cultivated ;  they  are  not  of  a  nature  which  is 
ever  lucrative  to  the  possessor  —  not  of  a  nature  that 
can  often  be  left,  like  lighter  literature,  to  the  fair  favor 
of  the  public; — they  call,  perhaps,  more  than  auy  spe¬ 
cies  of  intellectual  culture,  for  the  protection  of  a  gov¬ 
ernment;  and  though  in  me  would  be  a  poor  selection, 
the  principle  would  still  be  served,  and  the  example  fur¬ 
nish  precedent  for  nobler  instances  hereafter.  I  have 
said  all,  my  lord  !  ” 

Nothing  perhaps  more  affects  a  man  of  some  sympa¬ 
thy  with  those  who  cultivate  letters,  than  the  pecuniary 
claims  of  one  who  can  advance  them  with  justice,  and 
who  advances  them  also  with  dignity.  .If  the  meanest, 
the  most  pitiable,  the  most  heart-sickening  object  in  tha 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


125 


world,  is  the  man  of  letters,  sunk  into  the  habitual  beggar, 
practising  the  tricks,  incurring  the  rebuke,  glorying  in  the 
shame,  of  the  mingled  mendicant  and  swindler: — what, 
on  the  other  hand,  so  touches,  so  subdues  us,  as  the  first, 
and  only,  petition  of  one  whose  intellect  dignifies  our 
whole  kind;  and  who  prefers  it  with  a  certain  haughti¬ 
ness  in  his  very  modesty;  because,  in  asking  a  favor  to 
himself,  he  may  be  only  asking  the  power  to  enlighten 
the  world  ? 

“Say  no  more,  sir,”  said  the  earl,  affected  deeply,  and 
gracefully  giving  way  to  the  feeling;  “the  affair  is  set¬ 
tled.  Consider  it  so.  Name  only  the  amount  of  the 
annuity  you  desire.”  % 

With  some  hesitation  Aram  named  a  sum  so  moderate, 
so  trivial,  that  the  minister,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the 
claims  of  younger  sons  and  widowed  dowagers  —  accus¬ 
tomed  to  the  hungry  cravings  of  petitioners  without 
merit,  who  considered  birth  the  only  just  title  to  the 
right  of  exactions  from  the  public  —  was  literally  startled 
by  the  contrast.  “More  than  this,”  added  Aram,  “I  do 
not  require,  and  would  decline  to  accept.  We  have  some 
right  to  claim  existence  from  the  administrators  of  the 
common  stock  —  none  to  claim  affluence.” 

“Would  to  Heaven  !”  said  the  earl,  smiling,  “that  all 
claimants  were  like  you;  pension-lists  would  not  then 
call  for  indignation ;  and  ministers  would  not  blush  to 
support  the  justice  of  the  favors  they  conferred.  But 
are  you  still  firm  in  rejecting  a  more  public  career,  with 


126 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


/ 


all  its  deserved  emoluments  and  just  honors?  The  offer 
I  made  you  once,  I  renew  with  increased  avidity  now.” 

“  1 Despiciam  dites,,v  answered  Aram,  “and,  thanks 
to  you,  I  may  add,  ‘  despiciamque  famiemd  ”* * 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  THAMES  AT  NIGHT. - A  THOUGHT. - THE  STUDENT 

RESEEKS  THE  RUFEIAN.  —  A  HUMAN  FEELING  EVEN  IN 
THE  WORST  SOIL. 

0 


“Clem.  ’Tis  our  last  interview! 

Slat.  Pray  Heav'n  it  be!” — Clemanttys. 

On  leaving  Lord  *  *  *  *  *’s,  Aram  proceeded,  with  a 
lighter  and  more  rapid  step,  towards  a  less  courtly  quar¬ 
ter  of  the  metropolis. 

He  had  found,  on  arriving  in  London,  that  in  order 
to  secure  the  annual  sum  promised  to  Houseman,  it  had 
been  necessary  to  strip  himself  even  of  the  small  stipend 
he  had  hoped  to  retain.  And  hence  his  visit,  arid  hence 
his  petition,  to  Lord  *****.  He  now  bent  his  way 
to  the  spot  in  which  Houseman  had  appointed  their  meet¬ 
ing.  To  the  fastidious  reader  these  details  of  pecuniary 
matters,  so  trivial  in  themselves,  may  be  a  little  weari- 

*  “  Let  me  despise  wealth,”  and,  thanks  to  you,  I  may  add,  “  ana 

let  me  look  down  on  famine .” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


127 


• 

some,  and  may  seem  a  little  undignified ;  but  we  are  wri¬ 
ting  a  romance  of  real  life,  and  the  reader  must  take 
what  is  homely  with  what  may  be  more  epic  —  the  petti¬ 
ness  and  the  wants  of  the  daily  world,  with  its  loftier 
sorrows  and  its  grander  crimes.  Besides,  who  knows 
how  darkly  just  may  be  that  moral  which  shows  us  a 
nature  originally  high,  a  soul  once  all  a-thirst  for  truth, 
bowed  (by  what  events?)  to  the  manoeuvres  and  the  lies 
of  the  worldly  hypocrite  ? 

The  night  had  now  closed  in,  and  its  darkness  was 
only  relieved  by  the  wan  lamps  that  vistaed  the  streets, 
and  a  few  dim  stars  that  struggled  through  the  reeking 
haze  that  curtained  the  great  city.  Aram  had  now 
gained  one  of  the  bridges  “that  arch  the  royal  Thames,’’ 
and,  in  no  time  dead  to  scenic  attraction,  he  there  paused 
for  a  moment,  and  looked  along  the  dark  river  that 
rushed  below. 

Oh,  God !  how  many  wild  and  stormy  hearts  have 
stilled  themselves  on  that  spot,  for  one  dread  instant  of 
thought  —  of  calculation  —  of  resolve  —  one  instant,  the 
last  of  life !  Look  at  night  along  the  course  of  that 
stately  river,  how  gloriously  it  seems  to  mock  the  pas¬ 
sions  of  them  that  dwell  beside  it.  Unchanged  —  un¬ 
changing —  all  around  it  quick  death,  and  troubled  life; 
itself  smiling  up  to  the  grey  stars,  and  singing  from  its 
deep  heart  as  it  bounds  along.  Beside  it  is  the  senate, 
proud  of  its  solemn  triflers;  and  there  the  cloistered 
tomb,  in  which,  as  the  loftiest  honor,  some  handful  of  the 
fiercest  of  the  strugglers  may  gain  forgetfulness  and  a 

2b 


128 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


grave !  There  is  no  moral  to  a  great  city  like  the  river 
that  washes  its  walls. 

There  was  something  in  the  view  before  him,  that  sug¬ 
gested  reflections  similar  to  these,  to  the  strange  and  mys¬ 
terious  breast  of  the  lingering  student.  A  solemn  dejec¬ 
tion  crept  over  him,  a  warning  voice  sounded  on  his  ear, 
the  fearful  genius  within  him  was  aroused,  and  even  in 
the  moment  when  his  triumph  seemed  complete  and  his 
safety  secured,  he  felt  it  only  as  — 

“The  torrent’s  smoothness  ere  it  dash  below.” 

The  mist  obscured  and  saddened  the  few  lights  scattered 
on  either  side  the  water;  and  a  deep  and  gloomy  quiet 
brooded  round:  — 

“The  very  houses  seemed  asleep, 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  was  lying  still.” 

Arousing  himself  from  his  short  and  sombre  reverie, 
Aram  resumed  his  way,  and  threading  some  of  the  smaller 
streets  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  water,  arrived  at  last 
in  the  street  in  which  he  was  to  seek  Houseman. 

It  was  a  narrow  and  dark  lane,  and  seemed  altogether 
of  a  suspicious  and  disreputable  locality.  One  or  two 
samples  of  the  lowest  description  of  alehouses  broke  the 
dark  silence  of  the  spot; — from  them  streamed  the  only 
lights  which  assisted  the  single  lamp  that  burned  at  the 
entrance  of  the  alley;  and  bursts  of  drunken  laughter 
and  obscene  merriment  broke  out  every  now  and  then 
from  these  wretched  theatres  of  Pleasure.  As  Aram 
passed  one  of  them,  a  crowd  of  the  lowest  order  of 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


12S 


ruffian  and  harlot  issued  noisily  from  the  door,  and  sud¬ 
denly  obstructed  his  way :  through  this  vile  press,  reek¬ 
ing  with  the  stamp  and  odor  of  the  most  repellant  cha¬ 
racter  of  vice,  was  the  lofty  and  cold  student  to  force  his 
path!  The  darkness,  his  quick  step,  his  downcast  head, 
favored  his  escape  through  the  unhallowed  throng,  and 
he  now  stood  opposite  the  door  of  a  small  and  narrow 
house.  A  ponderous  knocker  adorned  the  door,  which 
seemed  of  uncommon  strength,  being  thickly  studded 
with  large  nails.  He  knocked  twice  before  his  summons 
was  answered,  and  then  a  voice  from  within  cried,  “Who’s 
there?  What  want  you?” 

“I  seek  one  called  Houseman.” 

No  answer  was  returned  —  some  moments  elapsed. 
Again  the  student  knocked,  and  presently  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Houseman  himself  call  out — 

“Who’s  there — Joe  the  Cracksman?” 

“Richard  Houseman,  it  is  I,”  answered  Aram,  in  a 
deep  tone,  and  suppressing  the  natural  feelings  of  loath¬ 
ing  and  abhorrence. 

Houseman  uttered  a  quick  exclamation ;  the  door  was 
hastily  unbarred.  All  within  was  utterly  dark;  but 
Aram  felt  with  a  thrill  of  repugnance  the  gripe  of  his 
straage  acquaintance  on  his  hand. 

“Ha!  it  is  you!  —  Come  in,  come  in!  —  let  me  lead 
you.  Have  a  care  —  cling  to  the  wall  —  the  right  hand 
—  now  then  —  stay.  So  —  so  —  (opening  the  door  of  a 
room,  in  which  a  single  candle,  well-nigh  in  its  socket, 


ISO 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


broke  on  the  previous  darkness) ;  here  we  are !  here  we 
are!  And  how  goes  it  —  eh?” 

Houseman  now  bustling  about,  did  the  honors  of  his 
apartment  with  a  sort  of  complacent  hospitality.  He 
drew  two  rough  wooden  chairs,  that  in  some  late  merri¬ 
ment  seemed  to  have  been  upset,  and  lay,  cumbering  the 
unwashed  and  carpetless  floor,  in  a  position  exactly  con¬ 
trary  to  that  destined  them  by  their  maker; — he  drew 
these  chairs  near  a  table  strewed  with  drinking  horns, 
half-emptied  bottles,  and  a  pack  of  cards.  Dingy  cari¬ 
catures  of  the  large  coarse  fashion  of  the  day,  decorated 
the  walls;  and  carelessly  thrown  on  another  table,  lay  a 
pair  of  huge  horse-pistols,  an  immense  shovel  hat,  a 
false  moustache,  a  rouge-pot,  and  a  riding- whip.  All 
this  the  student  comprehended  with  a  rapid  glance  —  his 
lip  quivered  for  a  moment  —  whether  with  shame  or  scorn 
of  himself,  and  then  throwing  himself  on  the  chair 
Houseman  had  set  for  him,  he  said  — 

“I  have  come  to  discharge  my  part  of  our  agree¬ 
ment.” 

“You  are  most  welcome,”  replied  Houseman,  with  that 
tone  of  coarse,  yet  flippant  jocularity,  which  afforded  to 
the  mien  and  manner  of  Aram  a  still  stronger  contrast 
than  his  more  unrelieved  brutality. 

“There,”  said  Aram,  giving  him  a  paper;  “there  you 
will  perceive  that  the  sum  mentioned  is  secured  to  you, 
the  moment  you  quit  this  country.  When  shall  that  be  ? 
Let  me  entreat  haste.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


131 


“Your  prayer  shall  be  granted.  Before  day-break  to¬ 
morrow,  I  will  be  on  the  road.” 

Aram’s  face  brightened. 

“There  is  my  hand  upon  it,”  said  Houseman,  earnestly. 
“You  may  now  rest  assured  that  you  are  free  of  me  for 
life.  Go  home  —  marry  —  enjoy  your  existence,  as  I 
have  done.  Within  four  days,  if  the  wind  set  fair,  I  am 
in  France.” 

“My  business  is  done;  I  will  believe  you,”  said  Aram, 
frankly,  and  rising. 

“You  may,”  answered  Houseman.  “Stay — I  will 
light  you  to  the  door.  Devil  and  death  —  how  the  d — d 
candle  flickers  1  ” 

Across  the  gloomy  passage,  as  the  candle  now  flared 
—  and  now  was  dulled  —  by  quick  fits  and  starts, — • 
Houseman,  after  this  brief  conference,  reconducted  the 
student.  And  as  Aram  turned  from  the  door,  he  flung 
his  arms  wildly  aloft,  and  exclaimed  in  the  voice  of  one, 
from  whose  heart  a  load  is  lifted, —  “Now,  now,  for  Mad¬ 
eline  1  I  breathe  freely  at  last  1  ” 

Meanwhile,  Houseman  turned  musingly  back,  and  re¬ 
gained  his  room,  muttering  — 

“Yes  —  yes  —  my  business  here  is  also  done!  Com¬ 
petence  and  safety  abroad  —  after  all,  what  a  bugbear  is 
this  conscience!  —  fourteen  years  have  rolled  away  —  and 
lo  !  nothing  discovered  !  nothing  known  !  And  easy  cir¬ 
cumstances —  the  very  consequence  of  the  deed  —  wait 
the  remainder  of  my  days:  my  child  too  —  my  Jane — -shall 
not  want  —  shall  not  be  a  beggar  nor  a  harlot.” 

II.  —  12 


132 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


So  musing,  Houseman  threw  himself  contentedly  on 
the  chair,  and  the  last  flicker  of  the  expiring  light,  as  it 
played  upward  on  his  rugged  countenance,  rested  on  one 
of  those  self-hugging  smiles,  with  which  a  sanguine  man 
contemplates  a  satisfactory  future. 

He  had  not  been  long  alone  before  the  door  opened, 
and  a  woman  with  a  light  in  her  hand  appeared.  She 
was  evidently  intoxicated,  and  approached  Houseman 
with  a  reeling  and  unsteady  step. 

“How  now,  Bess?  drunk  as  usual  1  Get  to  bed,  you 
she-shark,  go !  ” 

“  Tush,  man,  tush  1  don’t  talk  to  your  betters,”  said 
the  woman,  sinking  into  a  chair;  and  her  situation,  dis¬ 
gusting  as  it  was,  could  not  conceal  the  striking,  though 
somewhat  coarse  beauty  of  her  face  and  person. 

Even  Houseman  (his  heart  being  opened,  as  it  were, 
by  the  cheering  prospects  of  which  his  soliloquy  had 
indulged  the  contemplation),  was  sensible  of  the  effect 
of  the  mere  physical  attraction,  and  drawing  his  chair 
closer  to  her,  he  said  in  a  tone  less  harsh  than  usual — - 
“Come,  Bess,  come,  you  must  correct  that  d — d  habit 
of  yours ;  perhaps  I  may  make  a  lady  of  you  after  all. 
What  if  I  were  to  let  you  take  a  trip  with  me  to  France, 
old  girl,  eh?  and  let  you  set  off  that  handsome  face — for 
you  are  devilish  handsome,  and  that’s  the  truth- of  it  — 
with  some  of  the  French  gewgaws  you  women  love? 
What  if  I  were  ?  would  you  be  a  good  girl,  eh  ?  ” 

“I  think  I  w'ould,  Dick, —  I  think  I  would,”  replied 
the  woman,  showing  a  set  of  teeth  as  white  as  ivory,  with 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


133 


pleasure  partly  at  the  flattery,  partly  at  the  proposition : 
“you  are  a  good  fellow,  Dick,  that  you  are.’' 

“  Humph  1”  said  Houseman,  whose  hard,  shrewd  mind 
was  not  easily  cajoled;  “but  what’s  that  paper  in  your 
bosom,  Bess?  A  love-letter,  I’ll  swear.” 

“’Tis  to  you  then;  came  to  you  this  morning,  only 
somehow  or  other,  I  forgot  to  give  it  you  till  now  1  ” 

“  Ha  1  a  letter  to  me !  ”  said  Houseman,  seizing  the 
epistle  in  question.  “Hem!  the  Knaresbro’  postmark — - 
my  mother-in-law’s  crabbed  hand,  too !  What  can  the 
old  crone  want?” 

He  opened  the  letter,  and  hastily  scanning  its  contents, 
started  up. 

“Mercy,  mercy!”  cried  he,  “my  child  is  ill  —  dying. 
I  may  never  see  her  again, —  my  only  child, —  the  only 
thing  that  loves  me, — that  does  not  loathe  me  as  a  villain  !  ” 

“Heyday,  Dicky!”  said  the  woman,  clinging  to  him, 
“  don’t  take  on  so  ;  who  so  fond  of  you  as  me  ?  —  what’s  a 
brat  like  that?” 

“Curse  on  you,  hag!”  exclaimed  Houseman,  dashing 
her  to  the  ground  with  a  rude  brutality:  “you  love  me! 
Pah!  My  child  —  my  little  Jane, —  my  pretty  Jane  — 
my  merry  Jane — my  innocent  Jane  —  I  will  seek  her 
instantly  —  instantly!  What’s  money?  what’s  ease, — 
if — if - ” 

And  the  father,  wretch,  ruffian  as  he  was,  stung  to  the 
core  of  that  last  redeeming  feeling  of  his  dissolute  nature, 
struck  his  breast  with  his  clenched  hand  and  rushed  from 
the  room  —  from  the  house 


134 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHATTER  VII. 

MADELINE,  HER  HOPES.  —  A  MILD  AUTUMN  CHARACTERIZED 
—  A  LANDSCAPE.  —  A  RETURN. 


“  ’Tis  late,  and  cold  —  stir  up  the  fire, 

Sit  close,  and  draw  the  table  nigher; 

Be  merry  and  drink  wine  that’s  old, 

A  hearty  medicine  ’gainst  a  cold : 

Welcome — welcome  shall  fly  round!” 

Beaumont  and  Fletchek:  Song  in  the  Lover's  Progress 

As  when  the  great  poet, 

“Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detain’d 
In  that  obscure  sojourn;  while,  in  his  flight, 

Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  borne, 

He  sang  of  chaos,  and  eternal  night:”  — 

as  when,  revisiting  the  “holy  light  offspring  of  heaven 
first-born,”  the  sense  of  freshness  and  glory  breaks  upon 
him,  and  kindles  into  the  solemn  joyfulness  of  adjuring 
song;  so  rises  the  mind  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
gloom  and  guilt  of  life,  “the  utter  and  the  middle  dark¬ 
ness,”  to  some  pure  and  bright  redemption  of  our  nature 
—  some  creature  of  “the  starry  threshold,”  “the  regions 
mild  of  calm  an4  serene  air.”  Never  was  a  nature  more 
beautiful  and  soft  than  that  of  Madeline  Lester  —  never 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


135 


a  nature  more  inclined  to  live  “above  the  smoke  and  stir 
of  this  dim  spot,  which  men  call  earth”  —  to  commune 
with  its  own  high  and  chaste  creations  of  thought — to 
make  a  world  out  of  the  emotions  which  this  world  knows 
not — a  paradise,  which  sin,  and  suspicion,  and  fear,  had 
never  yet  invaded  —  where  God  might  recognize  no  evil, 
and  angels  forbode  no  change. 

Aram’s  return  was  now  daily,  nay,  even  hourly  expect¬ 
ed.  Nothing  disturbed  the  soft,  though  thoughtful  sere¬ 
nity,  with  which  his  betrothed  relied  upon  the  future. 
Aram’s  letters  had  been  more  deeply  impressed  with  the 
evidence  of  love,  than  even  his  spoken  vows;  those  let¬ 
ters  had  diffused  not  so  much  an  agitated  joy,  as  a  full 
and  mellow  light  of  happiness  over  her  heart.  Every 
thing,  even  nature,  seemed  inclined  to  smile  with  appro¬ 
bation  on  her  hopes.  The  autumn  had  never,  in  the 
memory  of  man,  worn  so  lovely  a  garment:  the  balmy 
and  refreshing  warmth  which  sometimes  characterizes 
that  period  of  the  year  was  not  broken,  as  yet,  by  the 
chilling  winds,  or  the  sullen  mists,  which  speak  to  us  so 
mournfully  of  the  change  that  is  creeping  over  the  beau¬ 
tiful  world.  The  summer  visitants  among  the  feathered 
tribe  yet  lingered  in  flocks,  showing  no  intention  of  de¬ 
parture;  and  their  song  —  but  above  all,  the  song  of  the 
skylark  —  which,  to  the  old  English  poet,  was  what  the 
nightingale  is  to  the  Eastern  —  seemed  even  to  grow 
more  cheerful  as  the  sun  shortened  his  daily  task; — the 
very  mulberry-tree,  and  the  rich  boughs  of  the  horse- 
chestnut,  retained  something  of  their  verdure;  and  the 
12* 


J  36 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


thousand  glories  of  the  woodland  around  Grassdale  were 
still  chequered  with  the  golden  hues  that  herald,  but  beau¬ 
tify,  decay.  Still  no  news  had  been  received  of  Walter; 
and  this  was  the  only  source  of  anxiety  that  troubled  the 
domestic  happiness  of  the  manor-house.  But  the  squire 
continued  to  remember  that  in  youth  he  himself  had 
been  but  a  negligent  correspondent;  and  the  anxiety  he 
felt  had  lately  assumed  rather  the  character  of  anger  at 
Walter’s  forgetfulness,  than  of  fear  for  his  safety.  There 
were  moments  when  Ellinor  silently  mourned  and  pined ; 
but  she  loved  her  sister  not  less  even  than  her  cousin ; 
and  in  the  prospect  of  Madeline’s  happiness  did  not  too 
often  question  the  future  respecting  her  own. 

One  evening  the  sisters  were  sitting  at  their  work  by 
the  window  of  the  little  parlor,  and  talking  over  various 
matters;  of  which  the  Great  World,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  never  made  a  part. 

They  conversed  in  a  low  tone ;  for  Lester  sat  by  the 
hearth  in  which  a  wood  fire  had  been  just  kindled,  and 
appeared  to  have  fallen  into  an  afternoon  slumber  The 
sun  was  sinking  to  repose,  and  the  whole  landscape  lay 
before  them  bathed  in  light,  till  a  cloud  passing  over¬ 
head  darkened  the  heavens  just  immediately  above  them, 
and  one  of  those  beautiful  sun -showers,  that  rather 
characterize  the  spring  than  autumn,  began  to  fall;  the 
rain  was  rather  sharp,  and  descended  with  a  pleasant  and 
refreshing  noise  through  the  boughs,  all  shining  in  the 
sun-light:  it  did  not,  however,  last  long,  and  presently 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


137 


there  sprung  up  the  glorious  rainbow,  and  the  voices  of 
the  birds,  which  a  minute  before  were  mute,  burst  into  a 
general  chorus, — the  last  hymn  of  the  declining  day. 
The  sparkling  drops  fell  fast  and  gratefully  from  the 
trees,  and  over  the  whole  scene  there  breathed  an  inex¬ 
pressible  sense  of  gladness, — 

“The  odor  and  the  harmony  of  eve.” 

“How  beautiful!”  said  Ellinor  pausing  from  her 
work.  “Ah,  see  the  squirrel  —  is  that  our  pet  one?  — 
he  is  coming  close  to  the  window,  poor  fellow !  Stay,  I 
will  get  him  some  bread.” 

“  Hush  !  ”  said  Madeline,  half  rising,  and  turning  quite 
pale;  “do  you  hear  a  step  without?” 

“Only  the  dripping  of  the  boughs,”  answered  Ellinor. 

“Ho,  no  —  it  is  he!  — it  is  he!”  cried  Madeline,  the 

blood  rushing  back  vividly  to  her  cheeks.  “I  know  his 

* 

step !  ” 

And — yes  —  winding  round  the  house  till  he  stood 
opposite  the  window,  the  sisters  now  beheld  Eugene 
Aram :  the  diamond  rain  glittering  on  the  locks  of  his 
long  hair;  his  cheeks  were  flushed  by  exercise,  or  more 
probably  the  joy  of  return;  a  smile,  in  which  there  was 
no  shade  or  sadness,  played  over  his  features,  which 
caught  also  a  fictitious  semblance  of  gladness  from  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  which  fell  full  upon  them. 

“My  Madeline!  my  love!  my  Madeline!”  broke  from 
his  lips. 


138 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


‘‘You  are  returned  —  thank  God  —  thank  God  —  safe 
—  well?” 

“And  happy!”  added  Aram,  with  a  deep  meaning  in 
the  tone  of  his  voice. 

“  Hey-day,  hey-day !  ”  cried  the  squire,  starting  up, 
“what’s  this?  Bless  me,  Eugene!  —  wet  through,  too, 
seemingly!  Nell,  run  and  open  the  door  —  more  wood 
on  the  fire  —  the  pheasants  for  supper — and  stay,  girl, 
stay  —  there’s  the  key  of  the  cellar — the  twenty-one 
port  —  you  know  it.  Ah!  ah!  God  willing,  Eugene 
Aram  shall  not  complain  of  his  welcome  back  to  Grass- 
dale  !  ” 


i 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


139 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AFFECTION:  ITS  GODLIKE  NATURE.  —  THE  CONVERSATION 
BETWEEN  ARAM  AND  MADELINE.  —  THE  FATALIST  FOR¬ 
GETS  FATE. 


“Hope  is  a  lover’s  staff;  walk  hence  with  that, 

And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts.” 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

If  there  be  any  thing  thoroughly  lovely  in  the  human 
heart,  it  is  affection  !  All  that  makes  hope  elevated,  or 
fear  generous,  belongs  to  the  capacity  of  loving.  For 
my  own  part,  I  do  not  wonder,  in  looking  over  the  thou¬ 
sand  creeds  and  sects  of  men,  that  so  many  religionists 
have  traced  their  theology  —  that  so  many  moralists  have 
wrought  their  system  —  from  love.  The  errors  thus 
originated  have  something  in  them  that  charms  us,  even 
while  we  smile  at  the  theology,  or  while  we  neglect  the 
system.  What  a  beautiful  fabric  would  be  human  nature 
—  what  a  divine  guide  would  be  human  reason — if  love 
were  indeed  the  stratum  of  the  one,  and  the  inspiration 
of  the  other !  We  are  told  of  a  picture  by  a  great  painter 
of  old,  in  which  an  infant  is  represented  sucking  a  mo¬ 
ther  wounded  to  the  death,  who,  even  in  that  agony 


140 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


strives  to  prevent  the  child  from  injuring  itself  by  im¬ 
bibing  the  blood  mingled  with  the  milk.*  How  many 
emotions,  that  might  have  made  us  permanently  wiser 
and  better,  have  we  lost  in  losing  that  picture ! 

Certainly,  love  assumes  a  more  touching  and  earnest 
semblance,  when  we  find  it  in  some  retired  and  sequester¬ 
ed  hollow  of  the  world ;  when  it  is  not  mixed  up  with 
the  daily  frivolities  and  petty  emotions  of  which  a  life 
passed  in  cities  is  so  necessarily  composed :  we  cannot 
but  believe  it  a  deeper  and  a  more  absorbing  passion ; 
perhaps  we  are  not  always  right  in  the  belief. 

Had  one  of  the  order  of  angels  to  whom  a  knowledge 
of  the  future,  or  the  seraphic  penetration  into  the  hid¬ 
den  heart  of  man,  is  forbidden,  stayed  his  wings  over  the 
lovely  valley  in  which  the  main  scene  of  our  history  has 
been  cast,  no  spectacle  might  have  seemed  to  him  more 
appropriate  to  that  pastoral  spot,  or  more  elevated  in 
the  character  of  its  tenderness  above  the  fierce  and  short¬ 
lived  passions  of  the  ordinary  world,  than  the  love  that 
existed  between  Madeline  and  her  betrothed.  Their 
natures  seemed  so  suited  to  each  other !  the  solemn  and 
undiurnal  mood  of  the  one  was  reflected  back  in  hues  so 
gentle,  and  yet  so  faithful,  from  the  purer,  but  scarce  less 
thoughtful  character  of  the  other  1  Their  sympathies 
ran  through  the  same  channel,  and  mingled  in  a  common 
fount ;  and  whatever  was  dark  and  troubled  in  the  breast 
of  Aram,  was  now  suffered  not  to  appear.  Since  his 

*  “Tntelligitur  sentire  mater  et  timere,  ne  &  mortuo  lacte  san 
guinern  lambat  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


141 


return,  his  mood  was  brighter  and  more  tranquil;  and  he 
seemed  better  fitted  to  appreciate  and  respond  to  the 
peculiar  tenderness  of  Madeline’s  affection.  There  are 
some  stars  which,  viewed  with  the  naked  eye,  seem  one, 
but  in  reality  are  two  separate  orbs  revolving  round  each 
other,  and  drinking,  each  from  each,  a  separate  yet  united 
existence:  —  such  stars  seem  a  type  of  them. 

Had  anything  been  wanting  to  complete  Madeline’s 
happiness,  the  change  in  Aram  supplied  the  want.  The 
sudden  starts,  the  abrupt  changes  of  mood  and  counte¬ 
nance,  that  had  formerly  characterized  him,  were  now 
scarcely,  if  ever,  visible.  He  seemed  to  have  resigned 
himself  with  confidence  to  the  prospects  of  the  future, 
and  to  have  forsworn  the  haggard  recollections  of  the 
past;  he  moved,  and  looked,  and  smiled  like  other  men; 
he  was  alive  to  the  little  circumstances  around  him,  and 
no  longer  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  a  separate 
and  strange  existence  within  himself.  Some  scattered 
fragments  of  his  poetry  bear  the  date  of  this  time :  they 
are  cheifly  addressed  to  Madeline ;  and,  amidst  the  vows 
of  love,  a  spirit,  sometimes  of  a  wild  and  bursting,  some¬ 
times  of  a  profound  and  collected  happiness,  are  visible. 
There  is  great  beauty  in  many  of  these  fragments,  and 
they  bear  a  stronger  evidence  of  heart — they  breathe 
more  of  nature  and  truth,  than  the  poetry  that  belongs 
of  right  to  that  time. 

And  thus  day  rolled  on  day,  till  it  was  now  the  eve 
before  their  bridals  Aram  had  deemed  it  prudent  to 
tell  Lester  that  he  had  sold  his  annuity,  and  that  he  had 


142 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


applied  to  the  earl  for  the  pension  which  we  have  seen 
he  had  been  promised.  As  to  his  supposed  relation  — 
the  illness  he  had  created  he  suffered  now  to  cease ;  and 
indeed  the  approaching  ceremony  gave  him  a  graceful 
excuse  for  turning  the  conversation  away  from  any  topics 
that  did  not  relate  to  Madeline,  or  to  that  event. 

It  was  the  eve  before  their  marriage :  Aram  and  Mad¬ 
eline  were  walking  along  the  valley  that  led  to  the  house 
of  the  former. 

“How  fortunate  it  is,”  said  Madeline,  “that  our  future 
residence  will  be  so  near  my  father’s.  I  cannot  tell  you 
with  what  delight  he  looks  forward  to  the  pleasant  circle 
we  shall  make.  Indeed,  I  think  he  would  scarcely  have 
consented  to  our  wedding,  if  it  had  separated  us  from 
him.” 

Aram  stopped,  and  plucked  a  flower. 

“Ah!  indeed,  indeed,  Madeline!  Yet  in  the  course 
of  the  various  changes  of  life,  how  more  than  probable  it 
is  that  we  shall  be  divided  from  him  —  that  we  shall  leave 
this  spot.” 

“It  is  possible,  certainly;  but  not  probable:  is  it, 
Eugene  ?  ” 

“Wo^ld  it  grieve  thee,  irremediably,  dearest,  were  it 
so  ?  ”  rejoined  Aram,  evasively. 

“Irremediably!  What  could  grieve  me  irremediably 
that  did  not  happen  to  you  ?  ” 

“Should,  then,  circumstances  occur  to  induce  us  tc 
leave  this  part  of  the  country,  for  one  yet  more  remote, 
you  could  submit  cheerfully  to  the  change?” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


143 


“I  should  weep  for  my  father  —  I  should  weep  for 
Ellinor;  but - ” 

“But  what?” 

“I  should  comfort  myself  in  thinking  that  you  would 
then  be  yet  more  to  me  than  ever !  ” 

“  Dearest !  ” 

“But  why  do  you  speak  thus;  only  to  try  me?  Ah  I 
that  is  needless.” 

“No,  my  Madeline  ;  I  have  no  doubt  of  your  affection. 
When  you  loved  such  as  me,  I  knew  at  once  how  blind, 
how  devoted  must  be  that  love.  You  were  not  won 
through  the  usual  avenues  to  a  woman’s  heart;  neither 
wit  nor  gaiety,  nor  youth  nor  beauty,  did  you  behold  in 
me.  Whatever  attracted  you  towards  me,  that  which 
must  have  been  sufficiently  powerful  to  make  you  over¬ 
look  these  ordinary  allurements,  will  be  also  sufficiently 
enduring  to  resist  all  ordinary  changes.  But  listen,  Mad¬ 
eline.  Do  not  yet  ask  me  wherefore ;  but  I  fear,  that  a 
certain  fatality  will  constrain  us  to  leave  this  spot  very 
shortly  after  our  wedding.” 

“How  disappointed  my  poor  father  will  be!”  said 
Madeline,  sighing. 

“Do  not,  on  any  account,  mention  this  conversation  to 
him,  or  to  Ellinor:  ‘sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof  ’  ” 

Madeline  wondered,  but  said  no  more.  There  was  a 
pause  for  some  minutes. 

“Do  you  remember,”  observed  Madeline,”  that  it  was 


144 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


about  here  we  met  that  strange  man  whom  you  had  for* 
merly  known?” 

“Ha!  was  it?  —  Here,  was  it?” 

“What  has  become  of  him?” 

“He  is  abroad,  I  hope,”  said  Aram,  calmly.  “Yes, 
let  me  think;  by  this  time  he  must  be  in  France.  Dear¬ 
est,  let  us  rest  here  on  this  dry  mossy  bank  for  a  little 
while ;  ”  and  Aram  drew  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and, 
his  countenance  brightening  as  if  with  some  thought  of 
increasing  joy,  he  poured  out  anew  those  protestations  of 
love,  and  those  anticipations  of  the  future,  which  befitted 
the  eve  of  a  morrow  so  full  of  auspicious  promise. 

The  heaven  of  their  fate  seemed  calm  and  glowing,  and 
Aram  did  not  dream  that  the  one  small  cloud  of  fear 
which  was  set  within  it,  and  which  he  alone  beheld  afar, 
and  unprophetic  of  the  storm,  was  charged  with  the 
thunderbolt  of  a  doom  he  had  protracted,  not  escaped. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


145 


CHAPTEB  IX. 

WALTER  AND  THE  CORPORAL  ON  THE  ROAD.  —  THE  EVENING 

SETS  IN. —  THE  GIPSY  TENTS. - ADVENTURE  WITH  THE 

HORSEMAN.  —  THE  CORPORAL  DISCOMEITED,  AND  THE 
ARRIVAL  AT  KNARESBRO’. 


“Long  had  he  wander’d,  when  from  far  he  sees 
A  ruddy  flame  that  gleam’d  betwixt  the  trees. 

- Sir  Gawaine  prays  him  tell 

Where  lies  the  road  to  princely  Carduel.” 

The  Knight  of  the  Sword. 

“Well,  Banting,  we  are  not  far  from  our  night’s  rest¬ 
ing-place,”  said  Walter,  pointing  to  a  mile-stone  on  the 
road. 

“The  poor  beast  will  be  glad  when  we  gets  there, 
your  honor,”  answered  the  corporal,  wiping  his  brows. 

“Which  beast,  Bunting?” 

“  Augh  ! — now  your  honor’s  severe  !  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  so  merry.” 

Walter  sighed  heavily;  there  was  no  mirth  at  his 
heart  at  that  moment. 

“Pray,  sir,”  said  the  corporal,  after  a  pause,  “if  not 
too  bold,  has  your  honor  heard  how  they  be  doing  at 
Grassdale  ?  ” 


146 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“No,  Bunting;  I  have  not  held  any  correspondence 
with  my  uncle  since  our  departure.  Once  I  wrote  to  him 
on  setting  off  to  Yorkshire,  but  I  could  give  him  no  di¬ 
rection  to  write  to  me  again.  The  fact  is,  that  I  have 
been  so  sanguine  in  this  search,  and  from  day  to  day  I 
have  been  so  led  on  in  tracing  a  clue,  which  I  fear  is  now 
broken,  that  I  have  constantly  put  off  writing  till  I  could 
communicate  that  certain  intelligence  which  I  flattered 
myself  I  should  be  able  ere  this  to  procure.  However, 
if  we  are  unsuccessful  at  Knaresbro’,  I  shall  write  from 
that  place  a  detailed  account  of  our  proceedings. ” 

“And  I  hopes  you  will  say  as  how  I  have  given  your 
honor  satisfaction.” 

“Depend  on  that.” 

“Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you  humbly;  I  would  not  like 
the  squire  to  think  I’m  ungrateful!  —  augh, —  and  may¬ 
hap  I  may  have  more  cause  to  be  grateful  by  and  by, 
whenever  the  squire,  God  bless  him !  in  consideration  of 
your  honor’s  good  offices,  should  let  me  have  the  bit  cot¬ 
tage  rent-free.” 

“A  man  of  the  world,  Bunting  ;  a  man  of  the  world  !  ” 

“Your  honor’s  mighty  obleeging,”  said  the  corporal, 
putting  his  hand  to  his  hat;  “I  wonders,”  renewed  he, 
after  a  short  pause,  “I  wonders  how  poor  neighbor 
Dealtry  is.  He  was  a  sufferer  last  year;  I  should  like 
to  know  how  Peter  is  getting  on  —  ’tis  a  good  creature.” 

Somewhat  surprised  at  this  sudden  sympathy  on  the 
part  of  the  corporal,  for  it  was  seldom  that  Bunting  ex¬ 
pressed  kindness  for  any  one,  Walter  replied. — 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


141 


“When  I  write,  Bunting,  I  will  not  fail  to  inquire  how 
Peter  Dealtry  is;  —  does  your  kind  heart  suggest  any 
other  message  to  him  ?  ” 

“Only  to  ask  arter  Jacobina,  poor  thing!  she  might 
get  herself  into  trouble  if  little  Peter  fell  sick  and  ne¬ 
glected  her  like  —  augh !  And  I  hopes  as  how  Peter 
airs  the  bit  cottage  now  and  then ;  but  the  squire,  God 
bless  him  !  will  see  to  that  and  the  tato  garden,  I  ’m  sure.” 

“You  may  rely  on  that,  Bunting,”  said  Walter,  sink  - 
ing  into  a  reverie,  from  which  he  was  shortly  aroused  by 
the  corporal. 

“I  ’spose  Miss  Madeline  be  married  afore  now,  your 
honor?  Well,  pray  Heaven  she  be  happy  with  that  ere 
larned  man !  ” 

Walter’s  heart  beat  faster  for  a  moment  at  this  sudden 
remark,  but  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  the  time  when 
the  thought  of  Madeline’s  marriage  was  accompanied 
with  painful  emotion  was  entirely  gone  by;  the  reflection, 
however,  induced  a  new  train  of  idea,  and  without  reply¬ 
ing  to  the  corporal,  he  sank  into  a  deeper  meditation 
than  before. 

The  shrewd  Bunting  saw  that  it  was  not  a  favorable 
moment  for  renewing  the  conversation ;  he  therefore 
suffered  his  horse  to  fall  back,  and  taking  a  quid  from  his 
tobacco-box,  was  soon  as  well  entertained  as  his  master. 
In  this  manner  they  rode  on  for  about  a  couple  of  ipiles, 
the  evening  growing  darker  as  they  proceeded,  when  a 
green  opening  in  the  road  brought  them  within  view  of 
a  gypsy’s  encampment;  the  scene  was  so  sudden  and 
13* 


148 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


picturesque,  that  it  aroused  the  young  traveller  from  his 
reverie,  and  as  his  tired  horse  walked  slowly  on,  the  bri¬ 
dle  about  its  neck,  he  looked  with  an  earnest  eye  on  the 

vagrant  settlement  beside  his  path.  The  moon  had  just 

/ 

risen  above  a  dark  copse  in  the  rear,  and  cast  a  broad, 
deep  shadow  along  the  green,  without  lessening  the  vivid 
effect  of  the  fires  which  glowed  and  sparkled  in  the  dark¬ 
er  recess  of  the  waste  land,  as  the  gloomy  forms  of  the 
Egyptians  were  seen  dimly  cowering  round  the  blaze. 
A  scene  of  this  sort  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  striking 
that  the  green  lanes  of  old  England  afford, —  to  me  it 
has  always  an  irresistible  attraction,  partly  from  its  own 
claims,  partly  from  those  of  association.  When  I  was 
a  mere  boy,  and  bent  on  a  solitary  excursion  over  parts 
of  England  and  Scotland,  I  saw  something  of  that  wild 
people, —  though  not  perhaps  so  much  as  the  ingenious 
George  Hanger,  to  whose  memoirs  the  reader  may  be 
referred  for  some  rather  amusing  pages  on  gipsy  life. 
As  Walter  was  still  eyeing  the  encampment,  he  in  return 
had  not  escaped  the  glance  of  an  old  crone,  who  came 
running  hastily  up  to  him,  and  begged  permission  to  tell 
his  fortune  and  to  have  her  hand  crossed  with  silver. 

Yery  few  men  under  thirty  ever  sincerely  refuse  an 
offer  of  this  sort.  Nobody  believes  in  these  predictions, 
yet  every  one  likes  hearing  them :  and  Walter,  after 
faintly  refusing  the  proposal  twice,  consented  the  third 
time:  and  drawing  up  his  horse,  submitted  his  hand  to 
the  old  lady.  In  the  meanwhile,  one  of  the  younger 
urchins  who  had  accompanied  her  had  run  to  the  encamp- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


149 


* 

merits  for  a  light,  and  now  stood  behind  the  old  womaifs 
shoulder,  rearing  on  high  a  pine  brand,  which  cast  over 
the  little  group  a  red  and  weird-like  glow. 

The  reader  must  not  imagine  we  are  now  about  to  call 
his  credulity  in  aid  to  eke  out  any  interest  he  may  feel  in 
our  story ;  the  old  crone  was  but  a  vulgar  gipsy,  and  she 
predicted  to  Walter  the  same  fortune  she  always  pre¬ 
dicted  to  those  who  paid  a  shilling  for  the  prophecy  — 
an  heiress  with  blue  eyes  —  seven  children  —  troubles 
about  the  epoch  of  forty-three,  happily  soon  over  —  and 
a  healthy  old  age,  with  an  easy  death.  Though  Walter 
was  not  impressed  with  any  reverential  awe  for  these 
vaticinations,  he  could  not  refrain  from  inquiring  whether 
the  journey  on  which  he  was  a-t  present  bent  was  likely 
to  prove  successful  in  its  object. 

-  “’Tis  an  ill  night,”  said  the  old  woman,  lifting  up  her 
wild  face  and  elfin  locks  with  a  mysterious  air  —  “’Tis  an 
ill  night  for  them  as  seeks,  and  for  them  as  asks — He's 
about - ” 

“He  —  who  ?  ” 

“No  matter!  —  you  maybe  successful,  young  sir,  yet 
wish  you  had  not  been  so.  The  moon  thus,  and  the 
wind  there  —  promise  that  you  will  get  your  desires,  and 
find  them  crosses.” 

The  corporal  had  listened  very  attentively  to  these 
predictions,  and  was  now  about  to  thrust  forth  his  own 
hand  to  the  soothsayer,  when  from  a  cross-road  to  the 
right  came  the  sound  of  hoofs,  and  presently  a  horseman 
at  full  trot  pulled  up  beside  them. 


150 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“Hark  ye,  old  she-devil,  or  you,  sirs  —  is  this  the  road 
to  Knaresbro’  ?  ” 

The  gipsy  drew  back,  and  gazed  on  the  countenance 
of  the  rider,  on  which  the  red  glare  of  the  pine-brand 
shone  full. 

“  To  Knaresbro’,  Richard  the  dare-devil  ?  Ay,  and 
what  does  the  ramping  bird  want  in  the  old  nest?  Wel¬ 
come  back  to  Yorkshire,  Richard,  my  bencove!” 

“Ha  I  ”  said  the  rider,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand, 
as  he  returned  the  gaze  of  the  gipsy — “is  it  you,  Bess 
Airlie  ? — your  welcome  is  like  the  owl’s,  and  reads  the 
wrong  way.  But  I  must  not  stop.  This  takes  to 
Knaresbro’,  then?” 

“Straight  as  a  dying -man’s  curse  to  hell,”  replied  the 
crone,  in  that  metaphorical  style  in  which  all  her  tribe 
love  to  speak,  and  of  which  their  proper  language  is  in¬ 
deed  almost  wholly  composed. 

The  horseman  answered  not,  but  spurred  on. 

“Who  is  that?”  asked  Walter,  earnestly,  as  the  old 
woman  stretched  her  tawny  neck  after  the  rider. 

“An  old  friend,  sir,”  replied  the  Egyptian,  dryly.  “I 
have  not  seen  him  these  fourteen  years ;  but  it  is  not 
Bess  Airlie  who  is  apt  to  forgit  friend  or  foe.  Well,  sir, 
shall  I  tell  your  honor’s  good  luck?” — (here  she  turned 
tc  the  corporal,  who  sat  erect  on  his  saddle,  with  his 
hand  on  his  holster,)  —  “the  color  of  the  lady’s  hair — - 
and - ” 

“Hold  your  tongue,  you  limb  of  Satan!”  interrupted 
the  corporal,  fiercely,  as  if  his  whole  tide  of  thought,  so 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


1 5'i 

lately  favorable  to  the  soothsayer,  had  undergone  a 
deadly  reversion.  “Please  your  honor,  it’s  getting  late, 
we  had  better  be  jogging!’’ 

“You  are  right,”  said  Walter,  spurring  on  his  jaded 
horse ;  and,  nodding  his  adieu  to  the  gipsy,  he  was  soon 
out  of  sight  of  the  encampment. 

‘  Sir,”  said  the  corporal,  joining  his  master,  “that  is  a 
man  as  I  have  seed  afore ;  I  knowed  his  ugly  face  again 
in  a  crack  —  ’tis  the  man  that  came  to  Grassdale  arter 
Mr.  Aram,  and  we  saw  arterwards  the  night  we  chanced 
on  Sir  Peter  Thingumybob.” 

“Bunting,”  said  Walter,  in  a  low  voice,  11 1  too  have 
been  trying  to  recall  the  face  of  that  man,  and  I  too  am 
persuaded  I  have  seen  it  before.  A  fearful  suspicion, 
amounting  almost  to  conviction,  creeps  over  me,  that  the 
hour  in  which  I  last  saw  it  was  one  when  my  life  was  in 
penl.  In  a  word,  I  do  believe  that  I  beheld  that  face 
bending  over  me  on  the  night  when  I  lay  under  the  hedge, 
and  so  nearly  escaped  murder !  If  I  am  right,  it  was, 
however,  the  mildest  of  the  ruffians ;  the  one  who  coun¬ 
selled  his  comrades  against  despatching  me.” 

The  corporal  shuddered. 

“Pray,  sir, ’’said  he,  after  a  moment’s  pause,  “do  see  if 
your  pistols  are  primed:  —  so  —  so.  ’Tis  not  out  o’ na¬ 
ture  that  the  man  may  have  some  ’complices  hereabout, 
and  may  think  to  waylay  us.  The  old  gipsy,  too,  what 
a  face  she  had !  Depend  on  it,  they  are  two  of  a  trade 
—  augh  !  —  bother !  —  whaugh  !  ” 

And  the  corporal  grunted  his  most  significant  grunt 


152 


EUGENE  ARAM 


•‘It  is  not  at  all  unlikely,  Bunting;  and  as  we  are  now 
not  far  from  Knaresbro’,  it  will  be  prudent  to  ride  on  as 
fast  as  our  horses  will  allow  us.  Keep  up  alongside.” 

“Certainly  —  I’ll  purtect  your  honor,”  said  the  cor¬ 
poral,  getting  on  that  side  where  the  hedge  being  thin¬ 
nest,  an  ambush  was  less  likely  to  be  laid.  “I  care  more 
for  your  honor’s  safety  than  my  own,  or  what  a  brute  I 
should  be  —  augh  !  ” 

The  master  and  man  trotted  on  for  some  little  dis¬ 
tance,  when  they  perceived  a  dark  object  moving  along 
by  the  grass  on  the  side  of  the  road.  The  corporal’s 
hair  bristled  —  he  uttered  an  oath,  which  he  mistook  for 
a  prayer.  Walter  felt  his  breath  grow  a  little  thick  as 
he  watched  the  motions  of  the  object  so  imperfectly  be¬ 
held  ;  presently,  however,  it  grew  into  a  man  on  horse¬ 
back,  trotting  very  slowly  along  the  grass;  and  as  they 
now  neared  him,  they  recognized  the  rider  they  had  just 
seen,  whom  they  might  have  imagined,  from  the  pace  at 
which  he  left  them  before,  to  have  been  considerably 
ahead  of  them. 

The  horseman  turned  round  as  he  saw  them. 

“Pray,  gentlemen,”  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  great  and 
evident  anxiety,  “how  far  is  it  to  Knaresbro’?” 

“Don’t  answer  him,  your  honor,”  whispered  the  cor¬ 
poral. 

“Probably,”  replied  Walter,  unheeding  this  advice, 
“you  know  this  road  better  than  wre  do.  It  cannot,  how¬ 
ever,  be  above  three  or  four  miles  hence.” 

“Thauk  you,  sir, —  it  is  long  since  I  have  been  in  these 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


15S 


parts.  I  used  to  know  the  country,  but  they  have  made 
new  roads  and  strange  enclosures,  and  I  now  scarcely 
recognize  anything  familiar.  Curse  on  this  brute  !  curse 
on  it,  I  say !  ”  repeated  the  horseman  through  his  ground 
teeth,  in  a  tone  of  angry  vehemence:  “I  never  wanted 
to  ride  so  quick  before,  and  the  beast  has  fallen  as  lame 
as  a  tree.  This  comes  of  trying  to  go  faster  than  other 
folks.  —  Sir,  are  you  a  father?” 

This  abrupt  question,  which  was  uttered  in  a  sharp, 
strained  voice,  a  little  startled  Walter.  He  replied 
shortly  in  the  negative,  and  was  about  to  spur  onward, 
when  the  horseman  continued  —  and  there  was  something 
in  his  voice  and  manner  that  compelled  attention, — 

“And  I  am  in  doubt  whether  I  have  a  child  or  not. — 
By  G — !  it  is  a  bitter  gnawing  state  of  mind.  —  I  may 
reach  Knaresbro’  to  find  my  only  daughter  dead,  sir  I  — 
dead !  ” 

Despite  Walter’s  suspicions  of  the  speaker,  he  could 
not  but  feel  a  thrill  of  sympathy  at  the  visible  distress 
with  which  these  words  were  said. 

“I  hope  not,”  said  he  involuntarily. 

“Thank  you,  sir;”  replied  the  horseman,  trying  ineffect¬ 
ually  to  spur  on  his  steed,  which  almost  came  down  at 
the  effort  to  proceed.  “I  have  ridden  thirty  miles  across 
the  country  at  full  speed,  for  they  had  no  post-horses  at 
the  d — d  place  where  I  hired  this  brute.  This  was  the 
only  creature  I  could  get  for  love  or  money;  and  now 
the  devil  only  knows  how  important  every  moment  may 
be.  While  I  speak,  my  child  may  breathe  her  last — !  ” 


151 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


And  the  man  brought  his  clenched  fist  on  the  shoulder  of 
his  horse  in  mingled  spite  and  rage 

“All  sham,  your  honor,”  whispered  the  corporal. 
“Sir,”  said  the  horseman,  now  raising  his  voice,  “1 
need  not  have  asked  if  you  had  been  a  father  —  if  you 
had,  you  would  have  had  compassion  on  me  ere  this, — 
you  would  have  lent  me  your  own  horse.’ 

“The  impudent  rogue!”  muttered  the  corporal. 
“Sir,”  replied  Walter,  “it  is  not  to  the  tale  of  every 
stranger  that  a  man  gives  belief.” 

“Belief! — ah,  well,  well,  ’tis  no  matter,”  said  the 
horseman  sullenly.  “  Tnere  was  a  time,  man,  when  I 
would  have  forced  what  I  now  solicit;  but  my  heart’s 

gone.  Ride  on,  sir  —  ride  on, —  and  the  curse  of - ” 

“If,”  interrupted  Walter,  irresolutely,  “if  I  could  be* 
lieve  your  statement:  —  but  no.  Mark  me,  sir:  I  have 
reasons  —  fearful  reasons,  for  imagining  you  mean  this 
but  as  a  snare  1  ” 

“Ha!”  said  the  horseman,  deliberately,  “have  we  met 
before  ?  ” 

“I  believe  so.” 

“And  you  have  had  cause  to  complain  of  me?'  It 
may  be  —  it  may  be:  but  were  the  grave  before  me,  and 
if  ;>ne  lie  would  smite  me  into  it,  I  solemnly  swear  that 
I  now  utter  but  the  naked  truth.” 

“It  would  be  folly  to  trust  him,  Bunting?”  said  Wal* 
ter,  turning  round  to  his  attendant. 

“  Folly  !  —  sheer  madness  —  bother  1  ” 

“If  you  are  the  man  I  take  you  for,”  said  Walter, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


155 

“you  once  raised  your  voice  against  the  murder,  tnough 
you  assisted  in  the  robbery,  of  a  traveller: — that  travel¬ 
ler  was  myself.  I  will  remember  the  mercy  —  I  will  for¬ 
get  the  outrage;  and  I  will  not  believe  that' you  h'ave 
devised  this  tale  as  a  snare.  Take  my  horse,  sir;  I  will 
trust  you.” 

Houseman,  for  it  was  he,  flung  himself  instantly  from 
his  saddle.  “I  don’t  ask  God  to  bless  you:  a  blessing 
in  my  mouth  would  be  worse  than  a  curse.  But  you  will 
not  repent  this:  you  will  not  repent  it!” 

Houseman  said  these  few  words  with  a  palpable  emo¬ 
tion  ;  and  it  was  more  striking  on  account  of  the  evident 
coarseness  and  hardened  brutality  of  his  nature.  In  a 
moment  more  he  had  mounted  Walter’s  horse,  and  turn¬ 
ing  ere  he  sped  on,  inquired  at  what  place  at  Knaresbo- 
rough  the  horse  should  be  sent.  Walter  directed  him  to 
the  principal  inn  ;  and  Houseman,  waving  his  hand,  and 
striking  his  spurs  into  the  animal,  wearied  as  it  was,  shot 
out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

“Well,  if  ever  I  seed  the  like!”  quoth  the  corporal. 
“Lira,  lira,  la,  la,  la!  lira,  lara,  la,  la,  la! — augh !  — 
waugh  !  —  bother !  ” 

“So  my  good-nature  does  not  please  you,  Bunting ? ” 

“Oh,  sir,  it  does  not  sinnify:  we  shall  have  our  throats 
cut  —  that’s  all.” 

“What,  you  don’t  believe  the  story?” 

“I?  Bless  your  honor,  I  am  no  fool.” 

“Bunting !  ” 

“Sir.” 

II.  — 14 


✓ 


156  EUGENE  ARAM. 

“You  forget  yourself.” 

“  A  ugh  !  ” 

“  So  you  don’t  think  I  should  have  lent  the  horse  ?  ” 

“Sartainly  not.” 

“On  occasions  like  these,  every  man  ought  to  take 
care  of  himself?  Prudence  before  generosity?” 

“  Of  a  surtainty,  sir  1  ” 

“Dismount,  then, —  I  want  my  horse.  You  may  shift 
with  the  lame  one.” 

“Augh,  sir, — baugh  !  ” 

“Rascal,  dismount,  I  sayl”  said  Walter  angrily:  for 
the  corporal  was  one  of  those  men  who  aim  at  governing 
their  masters;  and  his  selfishness  now  irritated  Walter 
as  much  as  h\s  impertinent  tone  of  superior  wisdom. 

The  corporal  hesitated.  He  thought  an  ambuscade 
by  the  road  of  certain  occurence ;  and  he  was  weighing 
the  danger  of  riding  a  lame  horse  against  his  master’s 
displeasure.  Walter,  perceiving  he  demurred,  was  seized 
with  so  violent  a  resentment,  that  he  dashed  up  to  the 
corporal,  and  grasping  him  by  the  collar,  swung  him, 
heavy  as  he  was, —  being  wholly  unprepared  for  such 
force, —  to  the  ground. 

Without  deigning  to  look  at  his  condition,  Walter 
mounted  the  sound  horse,  and  throwing  the  bridle  .  f  the 
lame  one  over  a  bough,  left  the  corporal  to  follow  at  lis 
leisure. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  sore  state  of  mind  than 
that  which  we  experience  when  we  have  committed  m 
act  we  meant  to  be  generous,  and  fear  to  be  foolish. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


157 


“  Certainly,”  said  Walter,  soliloquising,  “certainly  the 
man  is  a  rascal;  yet  he  was  evidently  sincere  in  his  emo¬ 
tion.  Certainly  he  was  one  of  the  men  who  robbed  me ; 
yet,  if  so,  he  was  also  the  one  who  interceded  for  my 
life.  If  I  should  now  have  given  strength  to  a  villain; 
— -if  I  should  have  assisted  him  to  an  outrage  against 
myself?  What  more  probable?  Yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
if  his  story  be  true; — if  his  child  be  dying, —  and  if, 
through  my  means,  he  obtain  a  last  interview  with  her! 
Well,  well,  let  me  hope  so!” 

Here  he  was  joined  by  the  corporal,  who,  angry  as  he 
was,  judged  it  prudent  to  smother  his  rage  for  another 
opportunity;  arid  by  favoring  his  master  with  his  com¬ 
pany,  to  procure  himself  an  ally  immediately  at  hand, 
should  his  suspicions  prove  true.  But  for  once,  his 
knowledge  of  the  world  deceived  him :  no  sign  of  living 
creature  broke  the  loneliness  of  the  way.  By  and  by  the 
lights  of  the  town  gleamed  upon  them;  and,  on  reaching 
the  inn,  Walter  found  his  horse  had  been  already  sent 
there,  and,  covered  with  dust  and  foam,  was  submitting 
itself  to  the  tutelary  hands  of  the  hostler. 


158 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Walter’s  reflections. —  mine  host. — a  gentle  cha¬ 
racter  AND  A  GREEN  OLD  AGE. - THE  GARDEN,  AND 

THAT  WHICH  IT  TEACIIETH.  —  A  DIALOGUE  WHEREIN  NEW 
HINTS  TOWARDS  THE  WISHED-FOR  DISCOVERY  ARE  SUG¬ 
GESTED. —  THE  CURATE. —  A  VISIT  TO  A  SPOT  OF  DEEP 
INTEREST  TO  THE  ADVENTURER. 


“I  made  a  posy  while  the  day  ran  by, 

Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 
My  life  within  this  band.”  —  George  Herbert. 

“  .  .  .  The  time  approaches, 

That  will  with  due  precision  make  us  know 
What - ”  Macbeth. 

The  next  morning  Walter  rose  early,  and  descending 
into  the  court-yard  of  the  inn  he  there  met  with  the 
landlord,  who  —  a  hoe  in  his  hand  —  was  just  about  to 
entei  a  little  gate  that  led  into  the  garden.  He  held  the 
gate  apen  for  Walter. 

“It  is  a  fine  morning,  sir;  would  you  like  to  look  into 
the  garden  ?  ”  said  mine  host,  with  an  inviting  smile. 

Walter  accepted  the  offer,  and  found  himself  in  a  large 
and  well-stocked  garden,  laid  out  with  much  neatness  and 
some  taste:  the  landlord  halted  by  a  parterre  which 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


159 


required  bis  attention,  and  Walter  walked  on  in  solitary 
reflection. 

The  morning  was  serene  and  clear,  but  the  frost  min¬ 
gled  the  freshness  with  an  “eager  and  nipping  air;  ”  and 
Walter  unconsciously  quickened  his  step  as  he  paced  to 
and  fro  the  straight  walk  that  bisected  the  garden,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  his  hat  over  his  brows. 

Now  then  he  had  reached  the  place  where  the  last 
trace  of  his  father  seemed  to  have  vanished ;  in  how  way¬ 
ward  and  strange  a  manner!  If  no  futher  clue  could  be 
here  discovered  by  the  inquiry  he  purposed,  at  this  spot 
would  terminate  his  researches  and  his  hopes.  But  the 
young  heart  of  the  traveller  was  buoyed  up  with  expec¬ 
tation.  Looking  back  to  the  events  of  the  last  few 
weeks,  he  thought  he  recognized  the  finger  of  Destiny 
guiding  him  from  step  to  step,  and  now  resting  on  the 
scene  to  which  it  had  brought  his  feet.  How  singularly 
complete  had  been  the  train  of  circumstance,  which,  link¬ 
ing  things  seemingly  most  trifling,  most  dissimilar,  had 
lengthened  into  one  continuous  chain  of  evidence !  the 
trivial  incident  that  led  him  to  the  saddler’s  shop ;  the 
accident  that  brought  the  whip  that  had  been  his  father’s, 
to  his  eye;  the  account  from  Courtland,  which  had  con¬ 
ducted  him  to  this  remote  part  of  the  country;  and  now 
the  narrative  of  Elmore  leading  him  to  the  spot,  at 
which  all  inquiry  seemed  as  yet  to  pause!  Had  he  been 
led  hither  only  to  hear  repeated  that  strange  tale  of  sud¬ 
den  and  wanton  disappearance  —  to  find  an  abrupt  wall, 
a  blank  and  impenetrable  barrier  to  a  course  hitherto  so 


160 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


continuously  guided  on  ?  Had  be  been  the  sport  of 
Tate,  and  not  its  instrument?  No;  he  was  filled  with  a 
serious  and  profound  conviction,  that  the  discovery  which 
he  of  all  men  was  best  entitled  by  the  unalienable  claims 
of  blood  and  birth  to  achieve  was  reserved  for  him,  and 
that  this  grand  dream  of  childhood  was  now  about  to  be 
embodied  and  attained.  He  could  not  but  be  sensible, 
too,  that  as  he  proceeded  on  his  high  enterprise,  his 
character  had  acquired  a  weight  and  a  thoughtful  serious¬ 
ness,  which  was  more  fitted  to  the  nature  of  that  enter¬ 
prise  than  akin  to  his  earlier  temper.  This  consciousness 
swelled  his  bosom  with  a  profound  and  steady  hope. 
When  Fate  selects  her  human  agents,  her  dark  and  mys¬ 
terious  spirit  is  at  work  within  them ;  she  moulds  their 
hearts,  she  exalts  their  energies,  she  shapes  them  to  the 
part  She  has  allotted  them,  and  renders  the  mortal  instru¬ 
ment  worthy  of  the  solemn  end. 

Thus  chewing  the  cud  of  his  involved  and  deep  reflec¬ 
tions,  the  young  adventurer  paused  at  last  opposite  his 
host,  who  was  still  bending  over  his  pleasant  task,  and 
every  now  and  then,  excited  by  the  exercise  and  the 
fresh  morning  air,  breaking  into  snatches  of  some  old 
rustic  song.  The  contrast  in  mood  between  himself  and 
this 

“  Unvex’d  loiterer  by  the'  world’s  green  ways,” 

struck  forcibly  upon  him.  Mine  host,  too,  was  one  whose  * 
appearance  was  better  suited  to  his  occupation  than  his 
profession.  He  might  have  told  some  three-and-sixtj 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


161 


years,  but  it  was  a  comely  and  green  old  age ;  his  cheek 
was  firm  and  ruddy,  not  with  nightly  cups,  but  the  fresh 
witness  of  the  morning  breezes  it  was  wont  to  court;  his 
frame  was  robust,  not  corpulent;  and  his  long  grey  hair, 
which  fell  almost  to  his  shoulders,  his  clear  blue  eyes, 
and  a  pleasant  curve  in  a  mouth  characterized  by  habit¬ 
ual  good-humor,  completed  a  portrait  that  even  many  a 
dull  observer  would  have  paused  to  gaze  upon.  And, 
indeed,  the  good  man  enjoyed  a  certain  kind  of  reputa¬ 
tion  for  his  comely  looks  and  cheerful  manner.  His  pic¬ 
ture  had  even  been  taken  by  a  young  artist  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood;  nay,  the  likeness  had  been  multiplied  into 
engravings,  somewhat  rude  and  somewhat  unfaithful, 
which  might  be  seen  occupying  no  unconspicuous  nor 
dusty  corner  in  the  principal  print-shop  of  the  town  :  nor 
was  mine  host’s  character  a  contradiction  to  his  looks. 
He  had  seen  enough  of  life  to  be  intelligent,  and  had 
judged  it  rightly  enough  to  be  kind.  He  had  passed 
that  line  so  nicely  given  to  man’s  codes  in  those  admira¬ 
ble  pages  which  first  added  delicacy  of  tact  to  the  strong 
sense  of  English  composition.  “We  have  just  religion 
enough,”  it  is  said  somewhere  in  The  Spectator ,  “to 
make  us  hate,  but  not  enough  to  make  us  love  one 
another.”  Our  good  landlord,  peace  be  with  his  ashes! 
had  never  halted  at  this  limit.  The  country  innkeeper 
might  have  furnished  Goldsmith  with  a  counterpart  to 
his  country  curate;  his  house  was  equally  hospitable  to 
the  poor  —  his.  heart  equally  tender,  in  a  nature  wiser 
than  experience,  to  error,  and  equally  open,  in  its  warm 


162 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


simplicity,  to  distress.  Peace  be  with  thee  *****! 
Our  grandsire  was  thy  patron  —  yet  a  patron  thou  didst 
not  want.  Merit  in  thy  capacity  is  seldom  bare  of  reward 
The  public  want  no  indicators  to  a  house  like  thine. 
And  who  requires  a  third  person  to  tell  him  how  to  ap¬ 
preciate  the  value  of  good-nature  and  good-cheer? 

As  Walter  stood  and  contemplated  the  old  man  bend' 
ing  over  the  sweet  fresh  earth  (and  then,  glancing  round, 
saw  the  quiet  garden  stretching  away  on  either  side  with 
its  boundaries  lost  among  the  thick  evergreen),  something 
of  that  grateful  and  moralizing  stillness  with  which  some 
country  scene  generally  inspires  us,  when  we  awake  to 
its  consciousness  from  the  troubled  dream  of  dark  and 
unquiet  thought,  stole  over  his  mind;  and  certain  old 
lines  which  his  uncle,  who  loved  the  soft  and  rustic  mo¬ 
rality  that  pervades  the  ancient  race  of  English  minstrels, 
had  taught  him,  when  a  boy,  came  pleasantly  into  his 
recollection :  — 

With  all,  as  in  some  rare  limned  book,  we  see 

Here  painted  lectures  of  God’s  sacred  will. 

The  daisy  teacheth  lowliness  of  mind; 

The  camomile,  we  should  be  patient  still ; 

The  rue,  our  hate  of  vice’s  poison  ill ; 

The  woodbine,  that  we  should  our  friendship  hold ; 

Our  hope  the  savory  in  the  bitterest  cold.”* 

The  old  man  stopped  from  his  work,  as  the  musing 
figure  of  his  guest  darkened  the  prospect  before  him,  and 
said, — 


*  Henrv  P^a-cbam. 

v 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


163 


“A  pleasant  time,  sir,  for  the  gardener!” 

“Ay,  is  it  so?  You  must  miss  the  fruits  and  flowers 
of  summer.” 

“Well,  sir, —  but  we  are  now  paying  back  the  garden 
for  the  good  things  it  has  given  us.  It  is  like  taking 
care  of  a  friend  in  old  age,  who  has  been  kind  to  us  when 
he  was  young.” 

Walter  smiled  at  the  quaint  amiability  of  the  idea. 

“’Tis  a  winning  thing,  sir,  a  garden!  It  brings  tis  an 

0 

object  every  day;  and  that’s  what  I  think  a  man  ought 
to  have  if  he  wishes  to  lead  a  happy  life.” 

“It  is  true,”  said  Walter;  and  mine  host  was  encour¬ 
aged  to  continue  by  the  attention  and  affable  countenance 
of  the  stranger,  for  he  was  a  physiognomist  in  his  way. 

“And  then,  sir,  we  have  no  disappointment  in  these 
objects; — the  soil  is  not  ungrateful,  as  they  say  men  ,are 
—  though  I  have  not  often  found  them  so,  by  the  by.  What 
we  sow  we  reap.  I  have  an  old  book,  sir,  lying  in  my 
little  parlor,  all  about  fishing,  and  full  of  so  many  pretty 
sayings  about  a  country  life,  and  meditation,  and  so  forth, 
that  it  does  one  as  much  good  as  a  sermon  to  look  into 
it.  But  to  my  mind,  all  those  sayings  are  more  applica¬ 
ble  to  a  gardener’s  life  than  a  fisherman’s.” 

“It  is  a  less  cruel  life,  certainly,”  said  Walter. 

“Yes,  sir;  and  then  the  scenes  one  makes  one’s  self, 
the  flowers  one  plants  with  one’s  own  hand,  one  enjoys 
more  than  all  the  beauties  which  don’t  owe  us  anything: 
at  least  so  it  seems  to  me.  I  have  always  been  thankful 
to  the  accident  that  made  me  take  to  gardening.” 


164 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“And  what  was  that?” 

“Why,  sir,  you  must  know  there  was  a  great  scholar, 
though  he  was  but  a  youth  then,  living  in  this  town  some 
years  ago,  and  he  was  very  curious  in  plants,  and  flowers, 
and  such  like.  I  have  heard  the  parson  say,  he  knew 
more  of  those  innocent  matters  than  any  man  in  this 
county.  At  that  time  I  was  not  in  so  flourishing  a  way 
of  business  as  I  am  at  present.  I  kept  a  little  inn  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  town;  and  having  formerly  been  a  game- 

keeper  of  my  Lord - ’s,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  eking 

out  my  little  profits  by  accompanying  gentlemen  in  fish¬ 
ing  or  snipe-shooting.  So  one  day,  sir,  I  went  out  fish¬ 
ing  with  a  strange  gentleman  from  London,  and,  in  a 
very  quiet  retired  spot  some  miles  off,  he  stopped  and 
plucked  some  herbs  that  seemed  to  me  common  enough, 
but  which  he  declared  were  most  curious  and  rare  things, 
and  he  carried  them  carefully  away.  I  heard  afterwards 
he  was  a  great  herbalist,  I  think  they  call  it,  but  he  was 
a  very  poor  fisher.  Well,  sir,  I  thought  the  next  morn¬ 
ing  of  Mr.  Aram,  our  great  scholar  and  botanist,  and 
fancied  it  would  please  him  to  know  of  these  bits  of 
gras§:  so  I  went  and  called  upon  him,  and  begged  leave 
tc  go  and  show  the  spot  to  him.  So  we  walked  there; 
and  certainly,  sir,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  I  saw,  I  never 
met  one  that  wound  round  your  heart  like  this  same 
Eugene  Aram.  He  was  then  exceedingly  poor,  but  he 
never  complained ;  and  was  much  too  proud  for  any  one 
to  dare  to  offer  him  relief.  He  lived  quite  alone,  and 
usually  avoided  everv  one  in  his  walks ;  but,  sir.  there 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


165 


was  something  so  engaging  and  patient  in  his  manner 
and  his  voice,  and  his  pale,  mild  countenance,  which, 
young  as  he  was  then,  for  he  was  but  a  year  or  two  over 
twenty,  was  marked  with  sadness  and  melancholy,  that  it 
quite  went  to  your  heart  when  you  met  him  or  spoke  to 
him. — Well,  sir,  we  walked  to  the  place,  and  very  much 
delighted  he  seemed  with  the  green  things  I  showed  him ; 
and  as  I  was  always  of  a  communicative  temper  —  rather 
a  gossip,  sir,  my  neighbors  say  —  I  made  him  smile  now 
and  then  by  my  remarks.  He  seemed  pleased  with  me, 
and  talked  to  me  going  home  about  flowers,  and  garden¬ 
ing,  and  such  like ;  and  sure  it  was  better  than  a  book 
to  hear  him.  And  after  that,  when  we  came  across  one 
another,  he  would  not  shun  me  as  he  did  others,  but  let 
me  stop  and  talk  to  him ;  and  then  I  asked  his  advice 
about  a  wee  farm  I  thought  of  taking,  and  he  told  me 
many  curious  things  which,  sure  enough,  I  found  quite 
true,  and  brought  me  in  afterwards  a  deal  of  money. 
But  we  talked  much  about  gardening,  for  I  loved  to  hear 
him  talk  on  those  matters ;  and  so,  sir,  I  was  struck  by 
all  he  said,  and  could  not  rest  till  I  took  to  gardening 
myself,  and  ever  since  I  have  gone  on,  more  pleased 
with  it  every  day  of  my  life.  Indeed,  sir,  I  think  these 
harmless  pursuits  make  a  man’s  heart  better  and  kinder 
to  his  fellow-creatures ;  and  I  always  take  more  pleasure 
in  reading  the  Bible,  specially  the  New  Testament,  after 
having  spent  the  day  in  the  garden.  Ah,  well,  I  should 
like  to  know  what  has  become  of  that  poor  gentleman.” 

"I  can  relieve  your  honest  heart  about  him.  Mr. 


166 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Aram  is  living  in  *  *  *  *,  well  off  in  the  world,  and  uni 
versally  liked ;  though  he  still  keeps  to  his  old  habits  ol 
reserve.” 

“Ay,  indeed,  sir!  I  have  not  heard  any  thing  that 
pleased  me  more  this  many  a  day.” 

“Pray,”  said  Walter,  after  a  moment’s  pause;  “do  you 
remember  the  circumstance  of  a  Mr.  Clarke  appearing 
in  this  town,  and  leaving  it  in  a  very  abrupt  and  mysteri¬ 
ous  manner  ?  ” 

“Do  I  mind  it,  sir?  Yes,  indeed.  It  made  a  great 
noise  in  Knaresbro’ — there  were  many  suspicious  of 
foul  play  about  it.  For  my  part,  I  too  had  my  thoughts, 
but  that’s  neither  here  nor  there ;  ”  and  the  old  man 
re-commenced  weeding  with  great  diligence. 

“My  friend,”  said  Walter,  mastering  his  emotion,  “you 
would  serve  me  more  deeply  than  I  can  express,  if  you 
would  give  me  any  information,  any  conjecture  respect¬ 
ing  this  —  this  Mr.  Clarke.  I  have  come  hither,  solely 
to  make  inquiry  after  his  fate:  in  a  word,  he  is  —  or  was 
—  a  near  relative  of  mine!” 

The  old  man  looked  wistfully  in  Walter’s  face.  “In¬ 
deed,”  said  he,  slowly,  “you  are  welcome,  sir,  to  all  I 
know;  but  that  is  very  little,  or  nothing  rather.  But 
will  you  turn  up  this  walk,  sir  ?  it’s  more  retired.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  one  Richard  Houseman?” 

“Houseman!  yes.  He  knew  my  poor - ,  I  mean 

he  knew  Clarke :  he  said  Clarke  was  in  his  debt  when  he 
left  the  town  so  suddenly.” 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  mysteriously,  and  looked 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


167 


round.  “I  will  tell  you,”  said  he,  laying  his  hand  or. 
Walter’s  arm,  and  speaking  in  his  ear;  “I  would  not 
accuse  any  one  wrongfully,  but  I  have  my  doubts  that 
Houseman  murdered  him.” 

“Great  God  1  ”  murmured  Walter,  clingiug  to  a  post 
for  support.  “Go  on  —  heed  me  not — heed  me  not — ■ 
for  mercy’s  sake  go  on.” 

“Nay,  I  know  nothing  certain  —  nothing  certain,  be¬ 
lieve  me,”  said  the  old  man,  shocked  at  the  effect  his 
words  had  produced  :  “it  may  be  better  than  I  think  for, 
and  my  reasons  are  not  very  strong,  but  you  shall  hear 
them.  Mr.  Clarke,  you  know,  came  to  this  town  to  re¬ 
ceive  a  legacy —  you  know  the  particulars?” 

Walter  impatiently  nodded  assent. 

“Well,  though  he  seemed  in  poor  health,  he  was  a 
lively  careless  man,  who  liked  any  company  who  would 
sit  and  tell  stories,  and  drink  o’  nights  not  a  silly  man 
exactly,  but  a  weak  one.  Now  of  all  the  idle  persons  of 
this  town,  Richard  Houseman  was  the  most  inclined  to 
this  way  of  life.  He  had  been  a  soldier  —  had  wandered 
a  good  deal  about  the  world  —  was  a  bold,  talking,  reck¬ 
less  fellow  —  of  a  character  thoroughly  profligate;  and 
there  were  many  stories  afloat  about  him,  though  none 
were  clearly  made  out.  In  short,  he  was  suspected  of 
having  occasionally  taken  to  the  high-road ;  and  a  stran 
ger,  who  stopped  once  at  my  little  inn,  assured  me  pri¬ 
vately,  that  though  he  could  not  positively  swear  to  his 
person,  he  felt  convinced  that  he  had  been  stopped  a  year 
before  on  the  London-road  by  Houseman.  Notwith- 
IJ.  — 15 


168 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


standing  all  this,  as  Houseman  had  some  respectable  con¬ 
nections  in  the  town  —  among  his  relations,  by  the  by, 
was  Mr.  Aram  —  as  he  was  a  thoroughly  boon  companion 
—  a  good  shot — a  bold  rider  —  excellent  at  a  song,  and 
very  cheerful  and  merry,  he  was  not  without  as  much 
company  as  he  pleased ;  and  the  first  night  he  and  Mr. 
Clarke  came  together,  they  grew  mighty  intimate;  in¬ 
deed  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  met  before.  On  the  night 
Mr.  Clarke  disappeared,  I  had  been  on  an  excursion  with 
some  gentlemen ;  and  in  consequence  of  the  snow  which 
had  been  heavy  during  the  latter  part  of  the  day,  I  did 
not  return  to  Knaresbro’  till  past  midnight.  In  walking 
through  the  town,  I  perceived  two  men  engaged  in  earn¬ 
est  conversation :  one  of  them,  I  am  sure,  was  Clarke ; 
the  other  was  wrapped  up  in  a  great-coat,  with  the  cape 
over  his  face ;  but  the  watchman  had  met  the  same  man 
alone  at  an  earlier  hour,  and,  putting  aside  the  cape,  per¬ 
ceived  that  it  was  Houseman.  No  one  else  was  seen  with 
Clarke  after  that  hour.” 

“But  was  not  Houseman  examined?” 

“Slightly;  and  deposed  that  he  had  been  spending  the 
night  with  Eugene  Aram ;  that  on  leaving  Aram’s  house, 
he  met  Clarke,  and  wondering  that  he,  the  latter,  an 
invalid,  should  be  out  at  so  late  an  hour,  he  walked  some 
way  with  him,  in  order  to  learn  the  cause ;  but  that 
Clarke  seemed  confused,  and  was  reserved,  and  on  his 
guard,  and  at  last  wished  him  good-by  abruptly,  and 
turned  away.  That  he,  Houseman,  had  no  doubt  he  left 
the  town  that  night,  with  the  intention  of  defrauding  his 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


i  69 


creditors,  and  making  off  with  some  jewels  lie  had  bor 
rowed  from  Mr.  Elmore.” 

“But,  Aram  —  was  this  suspicious,  nay,  abandoned 
character  —  this  Houseman — intimate  with  Aram?” 

“Not  at  all;  but  being  distantly  related,  and  House 
man  being  a  familiar,  pushing  sort  of  a  fellow,  Aram 
could  not,  perhaps,  always  shake  him  off;  and  Aram 
allowed  that  Houseman  had  spent  the  evening  with  him.” 

“And  no  suspicion  rested  on  Aram?” 

The  host  turned  round  in  amazement. — “Heavens 
above,  no  !  One  might  as  well  suspect  the  lamb  of  eat¬ 
ing  the  wolf!” 

But  not  thus  thought  Walter  Lester;  the  wild  words 
occasionally  uttered  by  the  student  —  his  lone  habits  — 
his  frequent  starts  and  colloquy  with  self,  all  of  which 
had,  even  from  the  first,  it  has  been  seen,  excited  Wal¬ 
ter’s  suspicion  of  former  gi  ilt,  that  had  murdered  the 
mind’s  wholesome  sleep,  now  rushed  with  tenfold  force 
upon  his  memory. 

“But  no  other  circumstance  transpired ?  Is  this  your 
whole  ground  for  suspicion ;  the  mere  circumstance  of 
Houseman’s  being  last  seen  with  Clarke?” 

“Consider  also  the  dissolute  and  bold  character  of 
Houseman.  Clarke  evidently  had  his  jewels  and  money 

with  him  —  thev  were  not  left  in  the  house.  What  a 

•* 

temptation  to  one  who  was  more  than  suspected  of  hav¬ 
ing  in  the  course  of  his  life  taken  to  plunder !  House¬ 
man  shortly  afterwards  left  the  country.  He  has  never 
returned  to  the  town  since,  though  his  daughter  lives 


170 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


here  with  his  wife’s  mother,  and  has  occasionally  gone  up 
to  town  to  see  him.” 

“And  Aram  —  he  also  left  Knaresbro’ soon  after  this 
mysterious  event?” 

“Yes!  an  old  aunt  at  York,  who  had  never  assisted 
him  during  her  life,  died  and  bequeathed  him  a  legacy, 
about  a  month  afterwards.  On  receiving  it,  he  naturally 
went  to  London  —  the  best  place  for  such  clever  scholars.” 

“Ha!  But  are  you  sure  that  the  aunt  died?  that  the 
legacy  was  left  ?  Might  this  be  no  tale  to  give  an  ex¬ 
cuse  to  the  spending  of  money  otherwise  acquired  ?  ” 

Mine  host  looked  almost  with  anger  on  Walter. 

“It  is  clear,”  said  he,  “you  know  nothing  of  Eugene 
Aram,  or  you  would  not  speak  thus.  But  I  can  satisfy 
your  doubts  on  this  head.  I  knew  the  old  lady  well,  and 
iny  wife  was  at  York  when  she  died.  Besides,  every  one 
here  knows  something  o'f  the  will,  for  it  was  rather  an 
eccentric  one.” 

Walter  paused  irresolutely.  “Will  you  accompany 
me,”  he  asked,  “to  the  house  in  which  Mr.  Clarke 
lodged, —  and,  indeed,  to  any  other  place  where  it  may 
be  prudent  to  institute  inquiry?” 

“Certainly,  sir,  with  the  biggest  pleasure,”  said  mine 
host;  “but  you  must  first  try  my  dame’s  butter  and  eggs. 
It  is  time  to  breakfast.” 

We  may  suppose  that  Walter’s  simple  meal  was  soon 
over;  and  growing  impatient  and  restless  to  commence 
his  inquiries,  he  descended  from  his  solitary  apartment  to 
the  little  back  room  behind  the  bar,  in  which  he  had,  on 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


IT  1 


th*?.  .light  before,  seen  mine  host  and  his  better-half  at 
sup)  er.  It  was  a  snug,  small,  wainscoted-room  ;  fishing- 
rods  were  neatly  arranged  against  the  wall,  which  was 
also  decorated  by  a  portrait  of  the  landlord  himself,  two 
old  Dutch  pictures  of  fruit  and  game,  a  long,  quaint- 
fashit  ned  fov, ding-piece,  and,  opposite  the  fire-place,  a 
noble  stag’s  head  and  antlers.  On  the  window-seat  lay 
the  Buac  Walton  to  which  the  old  man  had  referred;  the 
Family  Bible,  with  its  green  baize  cover,  and  the  frequent 
marks  peeping  out  from  its  venerable  pages;  and,  close 
nestling  to  it,  recalling  that  beautiful  sentence,  “Suffer 
the  littlj  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,” 
several  of  those  little  volumes  with  gay  bindings,  and 
marvelh  us  contents  of  fay  and  giant,  which  delight  the 
heart-spelled  urchin,  and  which  were  “the  source  of  gold¬ 
en  hours”  to  the  old  man’s  grandchildren,  in  their  respite 
from  “learning’s  little  tenements,” — • 

“  Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in  look  profound, 

And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel  around.”  * 

Mine  host  was  still  employed  by  a  huge  brown  loaf 
and  some  baked  pike;  and  mine  hostess,  a  quiet  and 
serene  old  lady,  was  alternately  regaling  herself  and  a 
large  brindled  cat  from  a  plate  of  “toasten  cheer.” 

While  the  old  man  was  hastily  concluding  his  repast, 
a  little  knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  presently  an 
elderly  gentleman  in  black  put  his  head  into  the  room, 
and,  perceiving  the  stranger,  would  have  drawn  back  ; 


15* 


*  Shenstone’s  Schoolmistress. 


172 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


but  botV  landlady  and  landlord,  bustling  up,  entreated 
him  to  enter  by  the  appellation  of  Mr.  Summers.  And 
then,  as  the  gentleman  smilingly  yielded  to  the  invita¬ 
tion,  the  landlady,  turning  to  Walter,  said, — “Our  cler¬ 
gyman,  sir:  and  though  I  say  it  afore  his  face,  there  is 
not  a  man  who,  if  Christian  vartues  were  considered, 
ought  so  soon  to  be  a  bishop.” 

“Hush!  my  good  lady,”  said  Mr.  Summers,  laughing 
as  he  bowed  to  Walter.  “You  see,  sir,  that  it  is  no 
trifling  advantage  to  a  Knaresbro’ reputation  to  have  our 
hostess’s  good  word.  But,  indeed,”  turning  to  the  land¬ 
lady,  and  assuming  a  grave  and  impressive  air*  “I  have 
little  mind  for  jesting  now.  You  knew  poor  Jane  House¬ 
man, —  a  mild,  quiet,  blue-eyed  creature, —  she  died  at 
daybreak  this  morning!  Her  father  had  come  from  Lon¬ 
don  expressly  to  see  her :  she  died  in  his  arms,  and,  I 
hear,  he  is  almost  in  a  state  of  frenzy.” 

The  host  and  hostess  signified  their  commiseration. 

“Poor  little  girl!”  said  the  latter,  wiping  her  eyes; 

“tier’s  was  a  hard  fate,  and  she  felt  it,  child  as  she  was. 

Without  the  care  of  a  mother  —  and  such  a  father!  Yet 

he  was  fond  of  her.” 

* 

“My  reason  for  calling  on  you  was  this,”  renewed  the 
clergyman,  addressing  the  host:  “you  knew  Houseman 
formerly;  me  he  always  shunned,  and,  I  fancied  ridiculed. 
He  is  in  distress  now,  and  all  that  is  forgotten.  Will  you 
seek  him,  and  inquire  if  any  thing  in  my  power  can  afford 
him  consolation?  He  may  be  poor:  I  can  pay  fos>  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


m 

poor  child’s  burial.  I  loved  her;  she  was  the  best  girl 
at  Mrs.  Summers’  school.” 

“Certainly,  sir,  I  will  seek  him,”  said  the  landlord, 
hesitating;  and  then,  drawing  the  clergyman  aside,  he 
informed  him  in  a  whisper  of  his  engagement  with  Wal¬ 
ter,  and  with  the  present  pursuit  and  meditated  inquiry 
of  his  guest;  not  forgetting  to  insinuate  his  suspicion 
of  the  guilt  of  the  man  whom  he  was  now  called  upon 
to  compassionate. 

The  clergyman  mused  a  little;  and  then,  approaching 
Walter,  offered  his  services  in  the  stead  of  the  publican 
in  so  frank  and  cordial  a  manner,  that  Walter  at  once 
accepted  them. 

“Let  us  come  now,  then,”  said  the  good  curate — for 
he  was  but  the  curate  —  seeing  Walter’s  impatience; 
“and  first  we  will  go  to  the  house  in  which  Clarke 
lodged:  I  know  it  well.” 

The  two  gentlemen  now  commenced  their  expedition. 
Summers  was  no  contemptible  antiquary ;  and  besought 
to  beguile  the  nervous  impatience  of  his  companion  by 
dilating  on  the  attractions  of  the  ancient  and  memorable 
town  to  which  his  purpose  had  brought  him. 

“Remarkable,”  said  the  curate,  “alike  in  history  and 
tradition:  look  yonder”  (pointing  above,  as  an  opening 
in  the  road  gave  to  view  the  frowning  and  beetled  ruins 
of  the  shattered  castle)  ;  “you  would  be  at  some  loss  to 
recognize  now  the  truth  of  old  Leland’s  description  of 
that  once  stout  and  gallant  bulwark  of  the  North,  when 
he  ‘numbrid  11  or  12  towres  in  the  walles  of  the  castel. 


174 


ETJGENE  ARAM. 


and  one  very  fayre  beside  in  the  second  area.’  In  that 
castle,  the  four  knightly  murderers  of  the  haughty  Becket 
(the  Wolsey  of  his  age)  remained  for  a  whole  year  defy¬ 
ing  the  weak  justice  of  the  times.  There,  too,  the  un¬ 
fortunate  Richard  the  Second  —  the  Stuart  of  the  Plan- 
ta genets  —  passed  some  portion  of  his  bitter  imprison¬ 
ment.  And  there,  after  the  battle  of  Marston  Moor, 
waved  the  banners  of  the  loyalists  against  the  soldiers 
of  Lilburne.  It  was  made  yet  more  touchingly  memo¬ 
rable  at  that  time,  as  you  may  have  heard,  by  an  instance 
of  filial  piety.  The  town  was  grievously  straitened  for 
want  of  provisions;  a  youth,  whose  father  was  in  the 
garrison,  was  accustomed  nightly  to  get  into  the  deep 
dry  moat,  climb  up  the  glacis,  and  put  provisions  through 
a  hole,  where  the  father  stood  ready  to  receive  them. 
He  was  perceived  at  length ;  the  soldiers  fired  on  him. 
He  was  taken  prisoner  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged  in 
sight  of  the  besieged,  in  order  to  strike  terror  into  those 
who  might  be  similarly  disposed  to  render  assistance  to 
the  garrison.  Fortunately,  however,  this  disgrace  was 
spared  the  memory  of  Lilburne  and  the  republican 
arms.  With  great  difficulty,  a  certain  lady  obtained  his 
respite;  and  after  the  conquest  of  the  place,  and  the  de¬ 
parture  of  the  troops,  the  adventurous  son  was  released.” 

“A  fit  subject  for  your  local  poets,”  said  Walter, 
whom  stories  of  this  sort,  from  the  nature  of  his  own 
enterprise,  especially  affected. 

“Yes;  but  we  boast  but  few  minstrels  since  the  young 
Aram  left  us.  The  castle  then,  once  the  residence  of 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


17«. 

John  of  Gaunt,  was  dismantled  and  destroyed.  Many 
of  the  houses  we  shall  pass  have  been  built  from  its  mas¬ 
sive  ruins.  It  is  singular,  by  the  way,  that  it  was  twice 
captured  by  men  of  the  name  of  Lilburne,  or  Lillburne; 
once  in  the  reign  of  Edward  II.,  once  as  I  have  related. 
On  looking  over  historical  records,  we  are  surprised  to 
find  how  often  certain  names  have  been  fatal  to  certain 
spots;  and  this  reminds  me,  by  the  way,  that  we  boast 
the  origin  of  the  English  sibyl,  the  venerable  Mother 
Shipton.  The  wild  rock,  at  whose  foot  she  is  said  to 
have  been  born,  is  worthy  of  the  tradition.” 

“You  spoke  just  now,”  said  Walter,  who  had  not  very 
patiently  suffered  the  curate  thus  to  ride  his  hobby,  “of 
Eugene  Aram;  you  knew  him  well?” 

“Nay:  he  suffered  not  any  to  do  that!  He  was  a 
remarkable  youth.  I  have  noted  him  from  his  child¬ 
hood  upward,  long  before  he  came  to  Knaresbro’,  till  on 
leaving  this  place,  fourteen  years  back,  I  lost  sight  of 
him. —  Strange,  musing,  solitary  from  a  boy:  but  what 
accomplishment  of  learning  he  had  reached!  Never  did 
I  see  one  whom  Nature  so  emphatically  marked  to  be 
great!  I  often  wonder  that  his  name  has  not  long  ere 
this  been  more  universally  noised  abroad,  whatever  he 
attempted  was  stamped  with  such  signal  success.  I  have 
by  me  some  scattered  pieces  of  his  poetry  when  a  boy: 
they  were  given  me  by  his  poor  father,  long  since  dead ; 
and  are  full  of  a  dim,  shadowy  anticipation  of  future 

fame.  Perhaps,  yet,  before  he  dies, —  he  is  still  young, 

2l5 


EUGENE  ARAM 


lift 

• — the  presentiment  will  be  realized.  You,  too,  know 
him,  then  ?  ” 

•‘Yes!  I  have  known  him.  Stay  —  dare  I  ask  you  8 
question,  a  fearful  question?  Did  suspicion  ever,  in  your 
mind,  in  the  mind  of  any  one,  rest  on  Aram,  as  concern¬ 
ed  in  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  my — of  Clarke? 
His  acquaintance  with  Houseman  who  was  suspected; 
Houseman’s  visit  to  Aram  that  night;  his  previous  pov¬ 
erty —  so  extreme,  if  I  hear  rightly;  his  after  riches  — 
though  they  perhaps  may  be  satisfactorily  accounted  for; 
his  leaving  this  town  so  shortly  after  the  disappearance 
I  refer  to; — these  alone  might  not  create  suspicion  in 
me,  but  I  have  seen  the  man  in  moments  of  reverie  and 
abstraction,  I  have  listened  to  strange  and  broken  words, 
I  have  noted  a  sudden,  keen,  and  angry  susceptibility  to 
any  unmeant  appeal  to  a  less  peaceful  or  less  innocent 
remembrance.  And  there  seems  to  me  inexplicably  to 
hang  over  his  heart  some  gloomy  recollection,  which  I 
cannot  divest  myself  from  imagining  to  be  that  of  guilt.” 

Walter  spoke  quickly,  and  in  great  though  half-sup¬ 
pressed  excitement;  the  more  kindled  from  observing 
that  as  he  spoke,  Summers  changed  countenance,  and 
listened  as  with  painful  and  uneasy  attention. 

“  I  wall  tell  you,”  said  the  curate,  after  a  short  pause 
(lowering  his  voice) — “I  will  tell  you  :  Aram  did  under¬ 
go  examination  —  I  was  present  at  it:  but  from  his  char¬ 
acter,  and  the  respect  universally  felt  for  him,  the  exami¬ 
nation  was  close  and  secret.  He  was  not,  mark  me, 
suspected  of  the  murder  of  the  unfortunate  Clarke,  nor 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


177 


was  any  suspicion  of  murder  generally  entertained  until 
all  means  of  discovering  Clarke  were  found  wnolly  un¬ 
availing;  but  of  sharing  with  Houseman  some  part  of 
the  jewels  with  which  Clarke  was  known  to  have  left  the 
town.  This  suspicic  n  of  robbery  could  not,  however,  be 
brought  home  even  to  Houseman,  and  Aram  was  satis¬ 
factorily  acquitted  from  the  imputation.  But  in  the 
minds  of  some  present  at  that  examination,  a  doubt 
lingered,  and  this  doubt  certainly  deeply  wounded  a  man 
so  proud  and  susceptible.  This,  I  believe,  was  the  real 
reason  of  his  quitting  Knaresbro’  almost  immediately 
after  that  examination.  And  some  of  us,  who  felt  for 
him,  and  were  convinced  of  his  innocence,  persuaded  the 
others  to  hush  up  the  circumstance  of  his  examination, 
nor  has  it  generally  transpired,  even  to  this  day,  when 
the  whole  business  is  well-nigh  forgot.  But  as  to  his 
subsequent  improvement  in  circumstances,  there  is  no 
doubt  of  his  aunt’s  having  left  him  a  legacy  sufficient  tc 
account  for  it.” 

Walter  bowed  his  head  and  felt  his  suspicions  waver, 
when  the  curate  renewed :  — 

‘‘Yet  it  is  but  fair  to  tell  you,  who  seem  so  deeply 
interested  in  the  fate  of  Clarke,  that  since  that  period 
rumors  have  reached  my  ear  that  the  woman  at  whose 
house  Aram  lodged,  has  from  time  to  time  dropped 
words  that  require  explanation  —  hints  that  she  could  tell 
a  tale  —  that  she  knows  more  than  men  will  readily  be¬ 
lieve —  nay,  once  she  is  even  reported  to  have  said  that 
the  life  of  Eugene  Aram  was  in  her  power.” 


178 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Father  of  mercy !  and  did  Inquiry  sleep  on  words  so 
calling  for  its  liveliest  examination  ?  ” 

“Not  wholly.  When  the  words  were  reported  to  me, 
I  went  to  the  house,  but  found  the  woman,  whose  habits 
and  character  are  low  and  worthless,  was  abrupt  and  in¬ 
solent  in  her  manner;  and  after  in  vain  endeavoring  to 
call  forth  some  explanation  of  the  words  she  was  said  to 
have  uttered,  I  left  the  house  fully  persuaded  that  she 
had  only  given  vent  to  a  meaningless  boast,  and  that  the 
idle  words  of  a  disorderly  gossip  could  not  be  taken  as 
evidence  against  a  man  of  the  blameless  character  and 
austere  habits  of  Aram.  Since,  however,  you  have  now 
reawakened  investigation,  we  will  visit  her  before  you 
leave  the  town;  and  it  may  be  as  well,  too,  that  House¬ 
man  should  undergo  a  further  investigation  before  we  suf¬ 
fer  him  to  depart.” 

“I  thank  you!  I  thank  you!  —  I  will  not  let  slip  one 
thread  of  this  dark  clue !  ” 

“And  now,”  said  the  curate,  pointing  to  a  decent 
house,  “we  have  reached  the  lodging  Clarke  occupied  iu 
the  town  !  ” 

An  old  man  of  respectable  appearance  opened  the 
door,  and  welcomed  the  curate  and  his  companion  with 
an  air  of  cordial  respect,  which  attested  the  well-deserved 
popularity  of  the  former. 

“We  have  come,”  said  the  curate,  “to  ask  some  ques¬ 
tions  respecting  Daniel  Clarke,  whom  you  remember  as 
your  lodger.  This  gentleman  is  a  relation  of  his,  ana 
interested  deeply  in  his  fate  l  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


179 


“What,  sir!”  quoth  the  old  man;  “and  have  yvu,  his 
relation,  never  heard  of  Mr.  Clarke  since  he  left  the 
town?  Strange! — this  room,  this  very  room,  was  the 
one  Mr.  Clarke  occupied,  and  next  to  this, —  here  — 
(opening  a  door)  was  his  bed-chamber!” 

It  was  not  without  powerful  emotion  that  Walter 
found  himself  thus  within  the  apartment  of  his  lost  father. 
What  a  painful,  what  a  gloomy,  yet  sacred  interest,  every 
thing  around  instantly  assumed  !  The  old-fashioned  and 
heavy  chairs  —  the  brown  wainscot  walls  —  the  little  cup¬ 
board  recessed  as  it  were  to  the  right  of  the  fire-place, 
and  piled  with  morsels  of  Indian  china  and  long  taper 
wine-glasses  —  the  small  window-panes  set  deep  in  the 
wall,  giving  a  dim  view  of  a  bleak  and  melancholy-look¬ 
ing  garden  in  the  rear  —  yea,  the  very  floor  he  trod  —  the 
very  table  on  which  he  leaned  —  the  very  hearth,  dull  and 
fireless  as  it  was,  opposite  his  gaze  —  all  took  a  familiar 
meaning  in  his  eye,  and  breathed  a  household  voice  into 
his  ear.  And  when  he  entered  the  inner  room,  how,  even 
to  suffocation,  were  those  strange,  half-sad,  yet  not  all 
bitter  emotions  increased !  There  was  the  bed  on  which 
his  father  had  rested  on  the  night  before - what?  per¬ 

haps  his  murder !  The  bed,  probably  a  relic  from  the 
castle,  when  its  antique  furniture  was  set  up  for  public 
sale,  was  hung  with  faded  tapestry,  and  above  its  dark 
and  polished  summit  were  hearse-like  and  heavy  trap¬ 
pings.  Old  commodes  of  rudely  carved  oak,  a  discolored 
glass  in  a  japan  frame,  a  ponderous  arm-chair  of  Eliza¬ 
bethan  fashion,  and  covered  with  the  same  tapestry  as  the 
II  —16 


180 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


# 


bed,  altogether  gave  that  uneasy  and  sepulchral  impres¬ 
sion  to  the  mind  so  commonly  produced  by  the  relics  of 
a  mouldering  and  forgotten  antiquity. 

“It  looks  cheerless,  sir,”  said  the  owner:  “but  then 
we  have  not  had  any  regular  lodger  for  years ;  it  is  just 
the  same  as  when  Mr.  Clarke  lived  here.  But  bless  you, 
sir,  he  made  the  dull  rooms  look  gay  enough.  He  was  a 
blithesome  gentleman.  He  and  his  friends,  Mr.  House¬ 
man  especially,  used  to  make  the  walls  ring  again  when 
they  were  over  their  cups  1  ” 

“It  might  have  been  better  for  Mr.  Clarke,”  said  the 
curate,  “had  he  chosen  his  comrades  with  more  discre¬ 
tion.  Houseman  was  not  a  creditable,  perhaps  not  a 
safe ,  companion.” 

“That  was  no  business  of  mine  then,”  quoth  the  lodg¬ 
ing-letter;  “but  it  might  be  now,  since  I  have  been  a 
married  man !  ” 

The  curate  smiled.  —  “Perhaps  you,  Mr.  Moor,  bore 
a  part  in  those  revels  ?  ” 

“Why,  indeed,  Mr.  Clarke  would  occasionally  make  me 
take  a  glass  or  so,  sir.” 

“And  you  must  then  have  heard  the  conversations 
that  took  place  between  Houseman  and  him  ?  Did  Mr. 
Clarke,  ever,  in  those  conversations,  intimate  an  inten¬ 
tion  of  leaving  the  town  soon  ?  And  where,  if  so,  did 
he  talk  of  going?” 

“Oh!  first  to  London.  I  have  often  heard  him  talk 
of  going  to  London,  and  then  taking  a  trip  to  see  some 
relations  of  his  in  a  distant  part  of  the  country.  I  re* 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


181 


memoer  his  caressing  a  little  boy  of  my  brother’s:  you 
know  Jack,  sir,  not  a  little  boy  now,  almost  as  tall  as  this 
gentleman.  Ah,”  said  he  with  a  sort  of  sigh,  “ah!  I 
have  a  boy  at  home  about  this  age, —  when  shall  I  see 
him  again?” 

“When  indeed!”  thought  Walter,  turning  away  his 
face  at  this  anecdote,  to  him  so  naturally  affecting. 

“And  the  night  that  Clarke  left  you,  were  you  aware 
of  his  absence  ?  ” 

“No!  he  went  to  his  room  at  his  usual  hour,  which 
was  late,  and  the  next  morning  I  found  his  bed  had  not 
been  slept  in,  and  that  he  was  gone  —  gone  with  all  his 
jewels,  money,  and  valuables;  heavy  luggage  he  had 
none.  He  was  a  cunning  gentleman ;  he  never  loved 
paying  a  bill.  He  was  greatly  in  debt  in  different  parts 
of  the  town,  though  he  had  not  been  here  long.  He 
ordered  every  thing  and  paid  for  nothing.” 

Walter  groaned.  It  was  his  father’s  character  exactly; 
partly  it  might  be  from  dishonest  principles  superadded 
to  the  earlier  feelings  of  his  nature;  but  partly  also  from 
that  temperament,  at  once  careless  and  procrastinating, 
which,  more  often  than  vice,  loses  men  the  advantage  of 
reputation. 

“Then  in  your  own  mind,  and  from  your  knowledge  of 
him,”  renewed  the  curate,  “you  would  suppose  that 
Clarke’s  disappearance  was  intentional;  that,  though 
nothing  has  since  been  heard  of  him,  none  of  the  blacker 
rumors  afloat  were  well  founded?” 

“T  confess,  sir,  begging  this  gentleman’s  pardon,  who 


182 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


yon  say  is  a  relation,  I  confess  I  see  no  reason  to  think 
others  ise.” 

“Was  Mr.  Aram,  Eugene  Aram,  ever  a  guest  of 
Clarke’s?  Did  you  ever  see  them  together?” 

“Never  at  this  house.  I  fancy  Houseman  once  pre¬ 
sented  Mr.  Aram  to  Clarke ;  and  that  they  may  have  met 
and  conversed  some  two  or  three  times  —  not  more,  I 
believe;  they  were  scarcely  congenial  spirits,  sir.” 

Walter,  having  now  recovered  his  self-possession,  en¬ 
tered  into  the  conversation ;  and  endeavored  by  as  minute 
an  examination  as  his  ingenuity  could  suggest,  to  obtain 
some  additional  light  upon  the  mysterious  subject  so 
deeply  at  his  heart;  Nothing,  however,  of  any  effectual 
import  was  obtained  from  the  good  man  of  the  house. 
He  had  evidently  persuaded  himself  that  Clarke’s  disap¬ 
pearance  was  easily  accounted  for,  and  would  scarcely 
lend  attention  to  any  other  suggestion  than  that  of 
Clarke’s  dishonesty.  Nor  did  his  recollection  of  tlis 
meetings  between  Houseman  and  Clarke  furnish  him  with 
any  thing  worthy  of  narration.  With  a  spirit  somewhat 
damped  and  disappointed,  Walter,  accompanied  by  the 
curate,  recommenced  his  expedition. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


183 


CHAPTER  XI. 

% 

flUIEF  IN  A  RUFFIAN.  —  THE  CHAMBER  OF  EARLY  DEATH. — • 

A  HOMELY  YET  MOMENTOUS  CONFESSION. - THE  EARTH’S 

SECRETS.  —  THE  CAVERN. —  THE  ACCUSATION. 


“All  is  not  well, 

*  I  doubt  some  foul  play. 

***** 

Foul  deeds  will  rise, 

Though  all  the  earth  o’erwhelm  them,  to  men’s  eyes.” 

Hamlet. 

As  they  passed  through  the  street,  they  perceived 
three  or  four  persons  standing  round  the  open  door  of  a 
house  of  ordinary  description,  the  windows  of  which 
were  partially  closed 

“It  is  the  house,”  said  the  curate,  “in  which  House¬ 
man’s  daughter  died  —  poor  —  poor  child!  Yet  why 
mourn  for  the  young  ?  Better  that  the  light  cloud  should 
fade  away  into  heaven  with  the  morning  breath,  than 
travel  through  the  weary  day  to  gather  in  darkness  and 
end  in  storm.” 

“Ah,  sir!”  said  an  old  man,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and 
lifting  his  hat  in  obeisance  to  the  curate,  “the  father  is 
within,  and  takes  on  bitterly.  He  drives  them  all  away 
16  * 


184 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


from  the  room,  and  sits  moaning  by  the  bedside,  as  if  he 
was  a-going  out  of  his  mind.  Won’t  your  reverence  go 
in  to  him  a  bit?” 

The  curate  looked  at  Walter  inquiringly.  “  Perhaps,” 
said  the  latter  “you  had  better  go  in :  I  will  wait  with¬ 
out.” 

While  the  curate  hesitated,  they  heard  a  voice  in  the 
passage,  and  presently  Houseman  was  seen  at  the  far 
end,  driving  some  women  before  him  with  violent  gesticu¬ 
lations. 

“I  tell  you,  ye  hell-hags  1”  shrieked  his  harsh  and  now 
straining  voice,  “that  ye  suffered  her  to  die.  Why  did 
ye  not  send  to  London  for  physicians?  Am  I  not  rich 
enough  to  buy  my  child’s  life  at  any  price?  By  the  liv¬ 
ing - !  I  would  have  turned  your  very  bodies  into 

gold  to  have  saved  her.  But  she’s  dead!  and  I - out 

of  my  sight  —  out  of  my  way!”  And  with  his  hands 
clenched,  his  brows  knit,  and  his  head  uncovered,  House¬ 
man  sallied  forth  from  the  door,  and  Walter  recognized 
the  traveller  of  the  preceding  night.  He  stopped  ab¬ 
ruptly  as  he  saw  the  little  knot  without,  and  scowled 
round  at  each  of  them  with  a  malignant  and  ferocious 
aspect.  “Very  well  —  it’s  very  well,  neighbors!”  said 
he  at  length  with  a  fierce  laugh:  “this  is  kind!  You 
have  come  to  welcome  Richard  Houseman  home,  have 
ye?  —  Good,  good!  Not  to  gloat  at  his  distress?  — 
Lord!  no.  Ye  have  no  idle  curiosity  —  no  prying, 
searching,  gossiping  devil  within  ye,  that  makes  ye  love 
to  flock,  and  gape,  and  chatter,  when  poor  men  suffer  I 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


185 


this  is  all  pure  compassion :  and  Houseman,  the  good, 
gentle,  peaceful,  honest  Houseman,  you  feel  for  him — I 
know  you  do!  Hark  ye:  begone  —  away  —  march  — 

tramp  —  or - Ha,  ha!  there  they  go  —  there  they 

go !  ”  laughing  wildly  again  as  the  frightened  neighbors 
shrank  from  the  spot,  leaving  only  Walter  and  the  clergy¬ 
man  with  the  childless  man. 

“Be  comforted,  Houseman!”  said  Summers,  sooth¬ 
ingly:  “it  is  a  dreadful  affliction  that  you  have  sustained. 
I  knew  your  daughter  well:  you  may  have  heard  her 
speak  of  me.  Let  us  in,  and  try  what  heavenly  comfort 
there  is  in  prayer.” 

“Prayer!  pooh!  I  am  Hichard  Houseman!” 

“Lives  there  one  man  for  whom  prayer  is  unavailing?” 

“Out,  canter,  out!  My  pretty  Jane  !  —  and  she  laid 
her  head  on  my  bosom, —  and  looked  up  in  my  face,— 
and  so  —  died!” 

“Come,”  said  the  curate,  placing  his  hand  on  House¬ 
man’s  arm,  “come.” 

Before  he  could  proceed,  Houseman,  who  was  mutter¬ 
ing  to  himself,  shook  him  off  roughly,  and  hurried  away 
up  the  street;  but  after  he  had  gone  a  few  paces,  he 
turned  back,  and,  approaching  the  curate,  said,  in  a  more 
collected  tone, —  “I  pray  you,  sir,  since  you  are  a  clergy¬ 
man  (I  recollect  your  face,  and  I  recollect  Jane  said  you 
had  oeen  good  to  her)  —  I  pray  you  go,  and  say  a  few 
words  over  her:  but  stay  —  don’t  bring  in  my  name  — 
you  understand.  I  don’t  wish  God  to  recollect  that  there 
lives  such  a  man  as  he  who  now  addresses  you.  Halloo  I 


i86 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


(shouting*  to  the  women),  my  hat,  and  stick  too.  Fal  lal 
la!  fal  la!  —  why  should  these  things  make  us  play  the 
madman  ?  It  is  a  fine  day,  sir:  we  shall  have  a  late  win¬ 
ter.  Curse  the  b - !  how  long  she  is.  Yet  the  hat 

was  left  below.  But  when  adeath  is  in  the  house,  sir,  it 
throws  things  into  confusion  :  don’t  you  find  it  so  ?  ” 

Here,  one  of  the  women,  pale,  trembling,  and  tearful^ 
brought  the  ruffian  his  hat;  and,  placing  it  deliberately 
on  his  head,  and  bowing  with  a  dreadful  and  convulsive 
attempt  to  smile,  he  walked  slowly  away  and  disappeared. 

“What  strange  mummers  grief  makes!”  said  the  cu¬ 
rate.  “It  is  an  appalliug  spectacle  when  it  thus  wrings 
out  feeling  from  a  man  of  that  mould  !  But,  pardon  me, 
my  young  friend ;  let  me  tarry  here  for  a  moment.” 

“I  will  enter  the  house  with  you,”  said  Walter.  And 
the  two  men  walked  in,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  stood 
within  the  chamber  of  death. 

The  face  of  the  deceased  had  not  yet  suffered  the  last 
withering  change.  Her  young  countenance  was  hushed 
and  serene;  and,  but  for  the  fixedness  of  the  smile,  you 
might  have  thought  the  lips  moved.  So  delicate,  fair, 
and  gentle  were  the  features,  that  it  was  scarcely  possible 
to  believe  such  a  scion  could  spring  from  such  a  stock; 
and  it  seemed  no  longer  wonderful  that  a  thing  so  young, 
so  innocent,  so  lovely,  and  so  early  blighted,  should  have 
touched  that  reckless  and  dark  nature  which  rejected  all 
other  invasion  of  the  softer  emotions.  The  curate  wiped 
his  eyes,  and  kneeling  down  prayed,  if  not  for  the  dead 
(who,  as  our  church  teaches,  are  beyond  human  interces* 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


13^ 


sion) —  perhaps  for  the  father  she  had  left  on  earth,  more 
to  be  pitied  of  the  two!  Nor  to  Walter  was  ffie  scene 
without  something  more  impressive  and  thrilling  than  its 
mere  pathos  alone.  He,  now  standing  beside  the  corpse 
of  Houseman’s  child,  was  son  to  the  man  of  whose  mur¬ 
der  Houseman  had  been  suspected.  The  childless  and 
tiie  fatherless !  might  there  be  no  retribution  here  ? 

When  the  curate’s  prayer  was  over,  and  he  and  Wal¬ 
ter  escaped  from  the  incoherent  blessings  and  complaints 
of  the  women  of  the  house,  they,  with  difficulty  resisting 
the  impression  the  scene  had  left  upon  their  minds,  once 
more  resumed  their  errand. 

“This  is  no  time,”  said  Walter,  musing,  “for  an  ex¬ 
amination  of  Houseman;  yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten.” 

The  curate  did  not  reply  for  some  moments;  and  then, 
as  an  answer  to  the  remark,  observed  that  the  conversa¬ 
tion  they  anticipated  with  Aram’s  former  hostess  might 
throw  some  light  on  their  researches.  They  now  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  another  part  of  the  town,  and  arrived  at  a 
lonely  and  desolate-looking  house,  which  seemed  to  wear 
in  its  very  appearance  something  strange,  sad,  and  omin¬ 
ous.  Some  houses  have  an  expression ,  as  it  were,  in 
their  outward  aspect,  that  sinks  unaccountably  into  the 
heart  —  a  dim  oppressive  eloquence,  which  dispirits  and 
affects.  You  say,  some  story  must  be  attached  to  those 
walls;  some  legendary  interest,  of  a  darker  nature,  ought 

to  be  associated  with  the  mute  stone  and  mortar:  vou 

«/ 

feel  a  mingled  awe  and  curiosity  creep  over  you  as 
you  gaze.  Such  was  the  description  of  the  house  that 


JL8a 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  young  adventurer  now  surveyed.  It  was  of  antique 
architecture,  not  uncommon  in  old  towns:  gable-ends 
rose  from  the  roof;  dull,  small,  lattised  panes  were  sunk 
deep  in  the  grey,  discolored  wall ;  the  pale,  in  part,  was 
broken  and  jagged;  and  rank  weeds  sprang  up  in  the 
neglected  garden,  through  which  they  walked  towards 
the  porch.  The  door  was  open ;  they  entered  and  found 
an  old  woman  of  coarse  appearance  sitting  by  the  fire¬ 
side,  and  gazing  on  space  with  that  vacant  stare  which 
so  often  characterizes  the  repose  and  relaxation  of  the 
uneducated  poor.  Walter  felt  an  involuntary  thrill  of 
dislike  come  over  him,  as  he  looked  at  the  solitary  inmate 
of  the  solitary  house. 

“Hey  day,  sir!”  said  she  in  a  grating  voice;  “and 
what  now?  Oh!  Mr.  Summers,  is  it  you?  You’re  wel¬ 
come,  sir.  I  wishes  I  could  offer  you  a  glass  of  summut, 
but  the  bottle’s  dry  —  he!  he!”  pointing  with  a  revolt¬ 
ing  grin  to  an  empty  bottle  that  stood  on  a  niche  within 
the  hearth.  “I  don’t  know  how  it  is,  sir,  but  I  never 
wants  to  eat ;  but  ah  !  ’tis  the  liquor  that  does  un  good  ! 99 

“You  have  lived  a  long  time  in  this  house?”  said  the 
curate. 

“A  long  time  —  some  thirty  years  an’  more.” 

“You  remember  your  lodger,  Mr.  Aram?” 

“A  —  well — yes  1  ” 

“An  excellent  man - 

“  Humph.” 

“A  most  admirable  man!” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


189 


“A-humph!  he!  —  humph!  that’s  neither  here  noi 
there.” 

“  Why,  you  don’t  seem  to  think  as  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  does  with  regard  to  him  ?  ” 

“I  knows  what  I  knows.” 

“Ah!  by-the-by,  you  have  some  cock-and-a-bull  story 
about  him,  I  fancy,  but  you  never  could  explain  yourself; 
it  is  merely  for  the  love  of  seeming  wise  that  you  invent¬ 
ed  it ;  eh,  Goody  ?  ” 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  and  crossing  her  hands 
on  her  knee,  replied  with  peculiar  emphasis,  but  in  a 
very  low  and  whispered  voice,  “I  could  hang  him!” 

“  Pooh !  ” 

“  Tell  you  I  could  !  ” 

“Well,  let’s  have  the  story  then!” 

“No,  no  !  I  have  not  told  it  to  ne’er  a  one  yet;  and 
I  won’t  for  nothing.  What  will  you  give  me?  —  Make 
it  worth  my  while  ?  ” 

“  Tell  us  all,  honestly,  fairly,  and  fully,  and  you  shall 
have  five  goldeu  guineas.  There,  Goody.” 

Roused  by  this  promise,  the  dame  looked  up  with  more 
of  energy  than  she  had  yet  shown,  and  muttered  to  her¬ 
self,  rocking  her  chair  to  and  fro,  “Aha!  why  not?  no 
fear  now — both  gone  —  can’t  now  murder  the  poor  old 
eretur,  as  the  wretch  once  threatened.  Five  golden  gui¬ 
neas —  five,  did  you  say,  sir, —  five?” 

‘  Ay,  and  perhaps  our  bounty  may  not  stop  there,” 
said  the  curate. 

Still  the  old  woman  hesitated,  and  still  she  mutterep 


190 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


to  herself;  but,  after  some  farther  prelude,  and  some  fur¬ 
ther  enticement  from  the  curate,  the  which  we  spare  our 
reader,  she  came  at  length  to  the  following  narration: — • 
“It  was  on  the  fth  of  February,  in  the  year  ’44;  yes, 
’44,  about  six  o’clock  in  the  evening,  for  I  was  a-washing 
in  the  kitchen,  when  Mr.  Aram  called  to  me,  an’  desired 
of  me  to  make  a  fire  up  stairs,  which  I  did:  he  then 
walked  out.  Some  hours  afterwards,  it  might  be  two  in 
the  morning,  I  was  lying  awake,  for  I  was  mighty  bad 
with  the  toothache,  when  I  heard  a  noise  below,  and  two 
or  three  voices.  On  this,  I  was  greatly  afeard,  and  got 
out  o’ bed,  and,  opening  the  door,  I  saw  Mr.  Houseman 
and  Mr.  Clarke  coming  up  stairs  to  Mr.  Aram’s  room, 
and  Mr.  Aram  followed  them.  They  shut  the  door,  and 
stayed  there,  it  might  be  an  hour.  Well,  I  could  not 
a-think  what  could  make  so  shy  an’  resarved  a  gentleman 
as  Mr  Aram  admit  these  ’ere  wild  madcaps  like  at  that 
hour;  an’  I  lay  awake  a-thinking  an’  a-thinking  till  I 
heard  the  door  open  agin,  an’  I  went  to  listen  at  the 
keyhole,  an’  Mr.  Clarke  said:  ‘It  will  soon  be  morning, 
and  we  must  get  off.’  They  then  all  three  left  the  house; 
but  I  could  not  sleep,  an’  I  got  up  afore  five  o’clock,  an’ 
about  that  hour  Mr.  Aram  an’  Mr.  Houseman  returned, 
and  they  both  glowered  at  me,  as  if  they  did  not  like  to 
find  me  a-stirring;  an’ Mr.  Aram  went  into  his  room, 
and  Houseman  turned  and  frowned  at  me  as  black  as 
night. — Lord  have  mercy  on  me!  I  see  him  now!  An’ 
I  was  sadly  feared,  an’  I  listened  at  the  keyhole,  an’  I 
heard  Houseman  say:  ‘If  the  woman  comes  in,  she’ll 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


191 


-ell.'-  ‘What  can  she  tell?’  said  Mr.  Aram  :  ‘poor  simple 
thing,  she  kuows  nothing.’  With  that,  Houseman  said, 
lays  he:  ‘If  she  tells  that  I  am  here,  it  will  be  enough; 
»ut  however,’ — with  a  shocking  oath, —  ‘we’ll  take  an 
opportunity  to  shoot  her.’ 

“On  that  I  was  so  frighted  that  I  went  away  back  to 
my  own  room,  and  did  not  stir  till  they  had  a-gone  out, 
and  then - ” 

“What  time  was  that?” 

“About  seven  o’clock.  Well,  you  put  me  out!  where 
was  I?  —  Well,  I  went  into  Mr.  Aram’s  room,  an’  I  seed 
they  had  been  burning  a  fire,  an’  that  all  the  ashes  were 
taken  out  o’  the  grate  ;  so  I  went  and  looked  at  the  rub¬ 
bish  behind  the  house,  and  there  sure  enough  I  seed  the 
ashes,  and  among  ’em  several  bits  o’  cloth  and  linen 
which  seemed  to  belong  to  wearing  apparel ;  and  there, 
too,  was  a  handkerchief  which  I  had  obsarved  House¬ 
man  wear  (for  it  was  a  very  curious  handkerchief,  all 
spotted)  many’s  the  time,  and  there  was  blood  on  it, 
’bout  the  size  of  a  shilling.  An’  afterwards  I  seed 
Houseman,  an’  I  showed  him  the  handkerchief;  an’  I 
said  to  him,  ‘What  has  come  of  Clarke?  ’  an’ he  frowned, 
and,  looking  at  me,  said,  ‘Hark’ye,  I  know  not  what  you 
mean :  but,  as  sure  as  the  devil  keeps  watch  for  souls,  I 
will  shoot  you  through  the  head  if  you  ever  let  that  d — d 
tongue  of  yours  let  slip  a  single  word  about  Clarke,  or 
me,  or  Mr.  Aram;  so  look  to  yourself!’ 

“An’  I  was  all  seared,  and  trimbled  from  limb  to 
limb ;  an’  for  two  whole  yearn  afterwards  (long  arter 
II.  — 17  2f 


192 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Aram  and  Houseman  were  both  gone)  I  niver  could  so 
much  as  open  my  lips  on  the  matter;  and  afore  he  went, 
Mr.  Aram  would  sometimes  look  at  me,  not  sternly-like 
as  the  villain  Houseman,  but  as  if  he  would  read  to  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  Oh !  I  was  as  if  you  had  taken  a 
mountain  off  o’  me,  when  he  an’  Houseman  left  the  town ; 
for  sure  as  the  sun  shines  I  believes,  from  what  I  have 
now  said,  that  they  two  murdered  Clarke  on  that  same 
February  night.  An’  now,  Mr.  Summers,  I  feels  more 
easy  than  I  has  felt  for  many  a  long  day ;  an’  if  I  have 
not  told  it  afore,  it  is  because  I  thought  of  Houseman’s 
frown,  and  his  horrid  words;  but  summut  of  it  would 
ooze  out  of  my  tongue  now  an’  then,  for  it’s  a  hard  thing, 
sir,  to  know  a  secret  o’  that  sort  and  be  quiet  and  still 
about  it;  and,  indeed,  I  was  not  the  same  cretur  when  I 
knew  it  as  I  was  afore,  for  it  made  me  take  to  anything 

rather  than  thinking;  and  that’s  the  reason,  sir,  I  lost  the 

% 

good  crakter  I  used  to  have.” 

Such,  somewhat  abridged  from  its  “says  he”  and  “says 
I”  —  its  involutions  and  its  tautologies,  was  the  story 
which  Walter  held  his  breath  to  hear.  But  events  thick 
en,  and  the  maze  is  nearly  thridden. 

“Not  a  moment  now  should  be  lost,”  said  the  curate, 
as  they  left  the  house.  “Let  us  at  once  proceed  to  a 
very  able  magistrate,  to  whom  I  can  introduce  you,  and 
wiio  lives  a  little  way  out  of  town.” 

‘As  you  will,”  said  Walter,  in  an  altered  and  hollow 
voice.  “I  am  as  a  man  standing  on  an  eminence,  who 
views  the  whole  scene  he  is  to  travel  over,  stretched  be- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


193 


Fore  him ;  but  is  dizzy  and  bewildered  by  the  height 
which  he  has  reached.  I  know  —  I  feel  —  that  I  am  on 
the  brink  of  fearful  and  dread  discoveries;  —  pray  God 

that - But  heed  me  not,  sir, —  heed  me  not — let  us  oil 

— on !  ” 

It  was  now  approaching  towards  the  evening ;  and  as 
they  walked  on,  having  left  the  town,  the  sun  poured  his 
last  beams  on  a  group  of  persons  that  appeared  hastily 
collecting  and  gathering  round  a  spot,  well  known  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Knaresborough,  called  Thistle  Hill. 

“Let  us  avoid  the  crowd,”  said  the  curate.  “Yet 
what,  I  wonder,  can  be  its  cause  ?  ”  While  he  spoke, 
two  peasants  hurried  by  towards  the  throng. 

“What  is  the  meaning  of  the  crowd  yonder?”  asked 
the  curate. 

“I  don’t  know  exactly,  your  honor;  but  I  hears  as 
how  Jem  Ninnings,  digging  for  stone  for  the  lime-kiln, 
have  dug  out  a  big  wooden  chest.” 

A  shout  from  the  group  broke  in  on  the  peasant’s 
explanation  —  a  sudden  simultaneous  shout,  but  not  of 
joy,  something  of  dismay  and  horror  seemed  to  breathe 
in  the  sound. 

Walter  looked  at  the  curate:  —  an  impulse — a  sudden 
instinct  —  seemed  to  attract  them  involuntarily  to  the 
spot  whence  that  sound  arose;  —  they  quickened  their 
pace  —  they  made  their  way  through  the  throng.  A 
deep  chest,  that  had  been  violently  forced,  stood  before 
them  :  its  contents  had  been  dragged  to  day,  arid  now  lay 
on  the  sward  —  a  bleached  and  mouldering  skeleton! 


194 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Several  of  the  bones  were  loose,  and  detached  from  the 
body.  A  general  hubbub  of  voices  from  the  spectators,— 
inquiry — guess — fear — wonder — rang  confusedly  round. 

“Yes,”  said  an  old  man,  with  grey  hair,  leaning  on  a 
pickaxe;  “it  is  now  about  fourteen  years  since  the  Jew 
pedlar  disappeared;  —  these  are  probably  his  bones  —  he 
was  supposed  to  have  been  murdered !  ” 

“Nay!”  screeched  a  woman,  drawing  back  a  child 
who,  all  unalarmed,  was  about  to  touch  the  ghastly  relics 
—  “Nay,  the  pedlar  was  heard  of  afterwards!  I’ll  "tell 
ye,  ye  may  be  sure  these  are  the  bones  of  Clarke  — 
Daniel  Clarke  —  whom  the  country  was  so  stirred  about, 
when  we  were  young  !  ” 

“Right,  dame,  right!  It  is  Clarke’s  skeleton,”  was 
the  simultaneous  cry.  And  Walter,  pressing  forward, 
stood  over  the  bones,  and  waved  his  hand,  as  to  guard 
them  from  farther  insult.  His  suddeu  appearance  —  his 
tall  stature  —  his  wild  gesture  —  the  horror  —  the  pale¬ 
ness —  the  grief  of  his  countenance  —  struck  and  appalled 
all  present.  He  remained  speechless,  and  a  sudden 
silence  succeeded  the  late  clamor. 

“And  what  do  you  here,  fools?”  said  a  voice  abruptly. 
The  spectators  turned  —  a  new  comer  had  been  added  to 
the  throng;  —  it  was  Richard  Houseman.  His  dress, 
loose  and  disarranged  —  his  flushed  cheeks  and  rolling 
eyes  —  betrayed  the  source  of  consolation  to  which  he 
had  flown  from  his  domestic  affliction.  “  What  do  ye 
here?”  said  he,  reeling  forward.  “Ha!  human  bones) 
and  whose  may  they  be,  think  ye?” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


195 


'‘They  are  Clarke’s!”  said  the  woman  who  had  first 
given  rise  to  that  supposition.  “Yes,  we  think  they  are 
Daniel  Clarke’s  —  lie  who  disappeared  some  years  ago!” 
cried  two  or  three  voices  in  concert. 

“Clarke’s?”  repeated  Houseman,  stooping  down  and 
picLing  up  a  thigh-bone,  which  lay  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  rest;  “Clarke’s? — ha!  ha!  they  are  no  more 
Clarke’s  than  mine  !  ” 

“Behold!”  shouted  Walter,  in  a  voice  that  rang  from 
cliff  to  plain, —  and  springing  forward,  he  seized  House¬ 
man  with  a  giant’s  grasp, —  “Behold  the  murderer!” 

As  if  the  avenging  voice  of  Heaven  had  spoken,  a 
thrilling,  an  electric  conviction  darted  through  the  crowd. 
Each  of  the  elder  spectators  remembered  at  once  the 
person  of  Houseman,  and  the  suspicion  that  had  attach¬ 
ed  to  his  name. 

“Seize  him!  seize  him!”  burst  forth  from  twenty 
voices.  “Houseman  is  the  murderer!”  * 

“Murderer!”  faltered  Houseman,  trembling  in  the 
iron  hands  of  Walter — “murderer  of  whom?  I  tell  ye 
these  are  not  Clarke’s  bones !  ” 

“Where  then  do  they  lie?”  cried  his  arrester. 

“  Pale  —  confused  —  conscience-stricken  —  the  bewilder 
ment  of  intoxication  mingling  with  that  of  fear,  House 
man  turned  a  ghastly  look  around  him,  and,  shrinking 
from  the  eyes  of  all,  reading  in  the  eyes  of  all  his  con¬ 
demnation,  he  gasped  out,  “Search  St.  Robert’s  Cave,  iu 
the  turn  at  the  entrance !  ” 
r i  * 


196 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“Away!”  rang  the  deep  voice  of  Walter,  on  the  in* 
stant  —  “away! — to  the  Cave — to  the  Cave!” 

On  the  banks  of  the  river  Nid,  whose  waters  keep  au 
everlasting  murmur  to  the  crags  and  trees  that  overhang 
them,  is  a  wild  and  dreary  cavern,  hollowed  from  a  rock, 
which,  according  to  tradition,  was  formerly  the  hermitage 
of  one  of  those  early  enthusiasts  who  made  their  solitude 
in  the  sternest  recesses  of  earth,  and  from  the  austerest 
thoughts,  and  the  bitterest  penance,  wrought  their  joy¬ 
less  offerings  to  the  great  Spirit  of  the  lovely  wrorld.  To 
this  desolate  spot,  called,  from  the  name  of  its  once-cele¬ 
brated  eremite,  St.  Robert’s  Cave,  the  crowd  now  swept, 
increasing  its  numbers  as  it  advanced. 

The  old  man  who  had  discovered  the  unknown  remains, 
which  were  gathered  up  and  made  a  part  of  the  proces¬ 
sion,  led  the  way;  Houseman,  placed  between  two  strong 
and  active  men,  went  next;  and  Walter  followed  behind, 
fixing  his  eyes  mutely  upon  the  ruffian.  The  curate  had 
had  the  precaution  to  send  on  before  for  torches,  for  the 
wintry  evening  now  darkened  round  them,  and  the  light 
from  the  torch-bearers  who  met  them  at  the  cavern,  cast 
forth  its  red  and  lurid  flare  at  the  mouth  of  the  chasm. 
One  of  these  torches  Walter  himself  seized,  and  his  was 
the  first  step  that  entered  the  gloomy  passage.  At  this 
place  and  time,  Houseman,  who  till  then,  throughout 
their  short  journey,  had  seemed  to  have  recovered  a  sort 
of  dogged  self-possession,  recoiled,  and  the  big  drops  of 
fear  or  agony  fell  fast  from  his  brow.  He  was  dragged 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


19r< 


forward  forcibly  into  the  cavern ;  and  now  as  the  space 
filled,  and  the  torches  flickered  against  the  grim  walls, 
glaring  on  faces  which  caught,  from  the  deep  and  thrill¬ 
ing  contagion  of  a  common  sentiment,  one  common  ex¬ 
pression  ;  it  was  not  well  possible  for  the  wildest  imagi¬ 
nation  to  conceive  a  scene  better  fitted  for  the  unhallowed 
burial-place  of  the  murdered  dead. 

The  eyes  of  all  now  turned  upon  Houseman;  and  he, 
after  twice  vainly  endeavoring  to  speak,  for  the  words 
died  inarticulate  and  choked  within  him,  advancing  a  few 
steps,  pointed  towards  a  spot  on  which,  the  next  moment, 
fell  the  concentrated  light  of  every  torch.  An  indescri¬ 
bable  and  universal  murmur,  and  then  a  breathless 
silence,  ensued.  On  the  spot  which  Houseman  had  indi 
cated, —  with  the  head  placed  to  the  right,  lay  what  once 
had  been  a  human  body ! 

“Can  you  swear,”  said  the  priest,  solemnly,  as  he  turn¬ 
ed  to  Houseman,  “that  these  are  the  bones  of  Clarke  ?  ” 

“Before  God,  I  can  swear  it!”  replied  Houseman,  at 
length  finding  voice. 

“My  Father!”  broke  from  Walter’s  lips,  as  he  sank 
upon  his  knees;  and  that  exclamation  completed  the  awe 
and  horror  which  prevailed  in  the  breasts  of  all  present. 
Stung  by  the  sense  of  the  danger  he  had  drawn  upon 
himself,  and  despair  and  excitement  restoring,  in  some 
measure,  not  only  his  natural  hardihood  but  his  natural 
astuteness;  Houseman  here  mastering  his  emotions,  and 
making  that  effort  which  he  was  afterwards  enabled  to 


198 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


follow  up  with  advantage  to  himself,  of  which  he  could 
not  then  have  dreamed ;  —  Houseman,  I  say,  cried  aloud, — 
“But  /  did  not  do  the  deed;  / am  not  the  murderer.” 
“  Speak  out !  —  whom  do  you  accuse  ?  ”  said  the  curate. 
Drawing  his  breath  hard,  and  setting  his  teeth,  as  with 
some  steeled  determination,  Houseman  replied, — 

“  The  murderer  is  Eugene  Aram !  ” 

“Aram!”  shouted  Walter,  starting  to  his  feet:  “O 
God,  thy  hand  hath  directed  me  hither  !  ”  And  suddenly 
and  at  once  his  sense  left  him,  and  he  fell,  as  if  a  shot  had 

pierced  through  ..is  heart,  beside  the  r< mains  of  that 

•  ■ 

father  whom  he  nad  thus  mysteriously  discovered. 


BOOK  FIFTH 


Ol  aurtjJ  Kaicd  irev%et  ivrjp  aX\y  Kaxd 
*H  Si  K&Kf)  PovXrj  rip  (iouXtvaavTt  KaKiart], 

'iisioa. 

Surely  the  man  that  plotteth  ill  against  his  neighbor  perpetrateth  ill 
against  himself,  and  the  evil  design  is  most  evil  to  him  that  deviseth  it. 


(199) 


BOOK  FIFTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

3RASSDALE.  —  THE  MORNING  OF  THE  MARRIAGE.  —  THE 
CRONE’S  GOSSIP. - THE  BRIDE  AT  HER  TOILET. - THE 

0 

ARRIVAL. 


‘‘Jam  veniet  virgo,  jam  dicetur  Hymengeus, 

Hymen,  0  Hymenoee!  Hymen  ades,  0  Hymensee!”* 

Catullus:  Carmen  Nuptiale. 

It  was  now  the  morning  in  which  Eugene  Aram  was 
to  be  married  to  Madeline  Lester.  The  student’s  house 
had  been  set  in  order  for  the  arrival  of  the  bride,  and 
though  it  was  yet  early  morn,  two  old  women  whom  his 
domestic  (now  not  the  only  one,  for  a  buxom  lass  of 
eighteen  had  been  transplanted  from  Lester’s  household, 
to  meet  the  additional  cares  that  the  change  of  circum¬ 
stances  brought  to  Aram’s)  had  invited  to  assist  her  in 
arranging  what  was  already  arranged,  were  bustling 
about  the  lower  apartments,  and  making  matters  as  they 
cafl  it  “tidy.” 


*  Now  shall  the  Virgin  arrive  ;  now  shall  be  sung  the  Hymeneal  — 
Hymen  Hymenceus  !  Be  present,  0  Hymen  Hymenceus! 


(201) 


EUGENE  ARAM 


202 


“Them  flowers  look  but  poor  things  after  all,”  mutter¬ 
ed  an  old  crone,  whom  our  readers  will  recognize  as 
Dame  Darkmans,  placing  a  bowl  of  exotics  on  the  table. 
“They  does  not  look  nigh  so  cheerful  as  them  as  grows 
in  the  open  air.” 

“Tush!  Goody  Darkmans,”  said  the  second  gossip. 
“They  be  much  prettier  and  finer  to  my  mind;  and  so 
said  Miss  Nelly,  when  she  plucked  them  last  night  and 
sent  me  down  with  them.  They  says  there  is  not  a  blade 
o’  grass  that  the  master  does  not  know.  He  must  be  a 
good  man  to  lore  the  things  of  the  field  so.” 

“Ho  !  ”  said  Dame  Darkmans,  “ho  !  when  Joe  Wrench 
was  hanged  for  shooting  the  lord’s  keeper,  and  he  mount¬ 
ed  the  scaffold  wid’  a  nosegay  in  his  hand,  he  said  in  a 
peevish  voice,  says  he:  ‘Why  does  not  they  give  me  a 
tarnation  ?  I  always  loved  them  sort  o’  flowers ;  I  wore 
them  when  I  went  a  courting  Bess  Lucas;  an’  I  would 
like  to  die  with  one  in  my  hand !  ’  So  a  man  may  like 
flowers,  and  be  but  a  hempen  dog  after  all!” 

“Now  don’t  you,  Goody:  be  still,  can’t  you?  what  a 
tale  for  a  marriage  day !  ” 

“Tally  vally,”  returned  the  grim  hag;  “many  a  bless¬ 
ing  carries  a  curse  in  its  arms,  as  the  new  moon  carries 
the  old.  This  won’t  be  one  of  your  happy  weddings,  I 
tell  ye.” 

“And  why  d’ye  say  that?” 

“  Did  you  ever  see  a  man  with  a  look  like  that  make  a 
happy  husband  ?  —  No,  no ;  can  ye  fancy  the  merry  laugh 
o’  childer  in  this  house,  or  a  babe  on  the  father’s  knee. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


203 


or  the  happy,  still  smile  on  the  mother’s  winsome  face, 
v  some  few  years  hence  ?  No,  Madge  !  the  de’il  has  set  his 
black  claw  on  the  man’s  brow.” 

“Hush!  hush,  Goody  Darkmans,  he  may  hear  o’ye,” 
said  the  second  gossip;  who,  having  now  done  all  that  re¬ 
mained  to  do,  had  seated  herself  down  by  the  window; 
while  the  more  ominous  crone,  leaning  over  Aram’s  oak 
chair,  uttered  from  thence  her  sibyl  bodings. 

“No,”  replied  Mother  Darkmans,  “I  seed  him  go  out 
an  hour  agone,  when  the  sun  was  just  on  the  rise  ;  and  I 
said,  when  I  seed  him  stroam  into  the  wood  yonder,  and 
the  ould  leaves  splashed  in  the  damp  under  his  feet;  and 
his  hat  wras  aboon  his  brows,  and  his  lips  went  so ;  I  said, 
says  I,  ’tis  not  the  man  that  will  make  a  hearth  bright, 
that  would  walk  thus  on  his  marriage  day.  But  I  knows 
what  I  knows;  and  I  minds  what  I  seed  last  night.” 

“Why,  what  did  you  see  last  night  ?  ”  asked  the  listener, 
with  a  trembling  voice :  for  Mother  Darkmans  was  a 
great  teller  of  ghost  and  witch  tales,  and  a  certain  ineffa  • 
ble  awe  of  her  dark  gipsy  features  and  malignant  words  had 
circulated  pretty  largely  throughout  the  village. 

“Why,  I  sat  up  here  with  the  ould  deaf  woman,  and  we 
were  a  drinking  the  health  of  the  man  and  his  wife  that 
is  to  be,  and  it  was  nigh  twelve  o’  the  clock  ere  I  minded 
it  was  time  to  go  home.  Well,  so  I  puts  on  my  cloak, 
and  the  moon  was  up,  an’  I  goes  along  by  the  wood,  and 
up  by  Fairlegh  Field,  an’  I  was  singing  the  ballad  on 
Joe  Wrench’s  hanging,  for  the  spirats  had  made  me 
gamesome,  when  I  sees  somemut  dark  creep,  creep,  buf 
II.  — 18 


204 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


iver  so  fast,  arter  me  over  the  field,  and  making  right 
ahead  to  the  village.  And  I  stands  still,  an’  I  was  not 
a  bit  afeard ;  blit  sure  I  thought  it  was  no  living  cretur, 
at  the  first  sight.  And  so  it  comes  up  faster  and  faster, 
and  then  I  sees  it  was  not  one  thing,  but  a  many,  many 
things,  and  they  darkened  the  whole  field  afore  me. 
And  what  d’ye  think  they  was?  —  a  whole  body  o’  grey 
rats,  thousands  and  thousands  on ’em,  and  they  were 
making  away  from  the  out-buildings  here.  For  sure  they 
knew  —  the  witch  things, —  that  an  ill-luck  sat  on  the 
spot.  And  so  I  stood  aside  by  the  tree,  an’  I  laughed  to 
look  on  the  ugsome  creturs,  as  they  swept  close  by  me, 
tramp,  tramp ;  an’  they  never  heeded  me  a  jot;  but  some 
on  ’em  looked  aslant  at  me  with  their  glittering  eyes,  and 
showed  their  white  teeth,  as  if  they  grinned,  and  were 
saying  to  me,  ‘Ha,  ha!  Goody  Darkmans,  the  house  that 
we  leave  is  a  falling  house ;  for  the  devil  will  have  his 
own.’  ” 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  and  especially  in  that 
where  our  scene  is  laid,  no  omen  is  more  superstitiously 
believed  evil  than  the  departure  of  these  loathsome  ani¬ 
mals  from  their  accustomed  habitation  :  the  instinct  which 
is  supposed  to  make  them  desert  an  unsafe  tenement,  is 
supposed  also  to  make  them  predict,  in  desertion,  ill  for- 
tune  to  the  possessor.  But  while  the  ears  of  the  listening 
gossip  were  still  tingling  with  this  narration,  the  dark 
figure  of  the  student  passed  the  window,  and  the  old 
women  starting  up,  appeared  in  all  the  bustle  of  prepara 
tion,  as  Aram  now  entered  the  apartment. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


205 


“A  happy  day,  your  honor  —  a  happy  good  morning,* 
Raid  both  the  crones  in  a  breath  ;  but  the  blessing  of  the 
worse-natured  was  vented  in  so  harsh  a  croak,  that  Aram 
turned  round  as  if  struck  with  the  sound ;  and  still  more 
disliking  the  well-remembered  aspect  of  the  person  from 
whom  it  came,  waved  his  hand  impatiently,  and  bade  them 
begone. 

“  A-whish  —  a-whish  !  ”  muttered  Dame  Darkmans, 
“to  spake  so  to  the  poor;  but  the  rats  never  lie,  the 
bonny  things!” 

Aram  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  and  remained  for 
some  moments  absorbed  in  a  reverie,  which  did  not  bear 
the  aspect  of  gloom.  Then  walking  once  or  twice  to 
and  fro  the  apartment,  he  stopped  opposite  the  chimney- 
piece,  over  which  were  slung  the  fire-arms,  which  he  never 
omitted  to  keep  charged  and  primed. 

“Humph!”  he  said,  half  aloud,  “ye  have  been  but  idle 
servants ;  and  now  ye  are  but  little  likely  ever  to  requite 
the  care  I  have  bestowed  upon  you.” 

With  that,  a  faint  smile  crossed  his  features,  and  turn¬ 
ing  away  he  ascended  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  lofty 
chamber  in  which  he  had  been  so  often  wont  to  outwatch 
the  stars, 

“  The  souls  of  systems,  and  the  lords  of  life 
Through  their  wide  empires.” 

Before  we  follow  him  to  his  high  and  lonely  retreat,  we 
will  bring  the  reader  to  the  manor-house,  where  all  was 
already  gladness  and  quiet  but  deep  joy. 

It  wanted  about  three  hours  to  that  fixed  for  the  mar* 


20b 


LUGENE  ARAM. 


riage,  and  Aram  was  not  expected  at  the  manor-house 
till  an  hour  before  the  celebration  of  the  event.  Never¬ 
theless,  the  bells  were  already  ringing  loudly  and  blithely; 
and  the  near  vicinity  of  the  church  to  the  house  brought 
that  sound,  so  inexpressibly  buoyant  and  cheering,  to  the 
ears  of  the  bride,  with  a  noisy  merriment  that  seemed  like 
the  hearty  voice  of  an  old-fashioned  friend  who  seeks  in 
his  greeting  rather  cordiality  than  discretion.  Before 
her  glass  stood  the  beautiful,  the  virgin,  the  glorious  form 
of  Madeline  Lester;  and  Ellinor,  with  trembling  hands 
(and  a  voice  between  a  laugh  and  a  cry),  was  braiding 
up  her  sister’s  rich  hair,  and  uttering  her  hopes,  her 
wishes,  her  congratulations.  The  small  lattice  was  open, 
and  the  air  came  rather  chillingly  to  the  bride’s  bosom. 

“It  is  a  gloomy  morning,  dearest  Nell,”  said  she, 
shivering;  “the  winter  seems  about  to  begin  at  last.” 

“Stay,  I  will  shut  the  window;  the  sun  is  struggling 
with  the  clouds  at  present,  but  I  am  sure  it  will  clear  up 
by  and  by.  You  don’t — you  don’t  leave  us  —  the  word 
must  out  —  till  evening.” 

“Don’t  cry!”  said  Madeline,  half  weeping  herself; 
and  sitting  down  she  drew  Ellinor  to  her;  and  the  two 
sisters,  who  had  never  been  parted  since  birth,  exchanged 
tears  that  were  natural,  though  scarcely  the  unmixed 
tears  of  grief. 

“And  what  pleasant  evenings  we  shall  have,”  said 
Madeline,  holding  her  sister’s  hands,  “in  the  Christmas 
time  !  You  will  be  staying  with  us,  you  know;  and  that 
pretty  old  room  in  the  north  of  the  house  Eugene  has 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


207 


already  ordered  to  be  fitted  up  for  you.  Welt,  and  my 
dear  father,  and  dear  Walter,  who  will  be  returned  long 
ere  then,  will  walk  over  to  see  us,  and  praise  my  house¬ 
keeping,  and  so  forth.  And  then,  after  dinner,  we  will 
draw  near  the  fire, —  I  next  to  Eugene,  and  my  father, 
our  guest,  on  the  other  side  of  me,  with  his  long  grey 
hair,  and  his  good  fine  face,  with  a  tear  of  kind  feeling 
in  his  eye :  you  know  that  look  he  has  whenever  he  is 
affected  ?  And  at  a  little  distance  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hearth  will  be  you;  —  and  Walter  —  I  suppose  we 
must  make  room  for  him.  And  Eugene,  who  will  be 
then  the  liveliest  of  you  all,  shall  read  to  us  with  his  soft 
clear  voice,  or  tell  us  all  about  the  birds  and  flowers,  and 
strange  things  in  other  countries.  And  then  after  supper 
we  will  walk  half-way  home  across  that  beautiful  valley 
—  beautiful,  even  in  winter  —  with  my  father  and  Walter, 
and  count  the  stars,  and  take  new  lessons  in  astronomy, 
and  hear  tales  about  the  astrologers  and  the  alchymists, 
with  their  fine  old  dreams.  Ah !  it  will  be  such  a  happy 
Christmas,  Ellinor !  And  then,  when  spring  comes,  some 
fine  morning  —  finer  than  this  —  when  the  birds  are 
about,  and  the  leaves  getting  green,  and  the  flowers 
springing  up  every  day,  I  shall  be  called  in  to  help  your 
toilet,  as  you  have  helped  mine,  and  to  go  with  you  to 
church,  though  not,  alas!  as  your  bridesmaid.  Ah! 
whom  shall  we  have  for  that  duty?” 

“Pshaw!”  said  Ellinor,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

While  the  sisters  were  thus  engaged,  and  Madeline 
18  *  2g 


208 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


was  trying,  with  her  innocent  kindness  of  heart  to  exhila¬ 
rate  the  spirits,  so  naturally  depressed,  of  her  doting 
sister,  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  was  heard  in  the 
distance;  nearer,  nearer; — now  the  sound  stopped,  as 
at  the  gate;  —  now  fast,  faster,  —  fast  as  the  postilions 
could  ply  whip,  and  the  horses  tear  along,  while  the 
groups  in  the  churchyard  ran  forth  to  gaze,  and  the  bells 
rang  merrily  all  the  while,  two  chaises  whirled  by  Made¬ 
line’s  window,  and  stopped  at  the  porch  of  the  house : 
the  sisters  had  flown  in  surprise  to  the  casement. 

“It  is  —  it  is  —  good  God!  it  is  Walter,”  cried  Elli- 
nor;  “but  how  pale  he  looks!” 

“And  who  are  those  strange  men  with  himf  faltered 
Madeline,  alarmed,  though  she  knew  not  wh} 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


209 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STUDENT  ALONE  IN  HIS  CHAMBER.  —  THE  INTERRUP¬ 
TION. —  FAITHFUL  LOVE. 


“Nequicquam  thalamo  graves 
Ilastas - 

Vitabis,  strepitumqne,  et  celerem  sequi 
Ajucem.”  —  Horat.  Od.  xv.  lib.  1. 

Alone  in  his  favorite  chamber,  the  instruments  of 
science  around  him,  and  books,  some  of  astronomical 
research,  some  of  less  lofty  but  yet  abstruser  lore,  scat¬ 
tered  on  the  tables,  Eugene  Aram  indulged  the  last  medi¬ 
tation  he  believed  likely  to  absorb  his  thoughts  before 
that  great  change  of  life  which  was  to  bless  solitude  with 
a  companion. 

“Yes,”  said  he,  pacing  the  apartment  with  folded 
arms, —  “yes,  all  is  safe!  He  will  not  again  return;  the 
dead  sleeps  now  without  a  witness.  I  may  lay  this  work¬ 
ing  brain  uuon  the  bosom  that  loves  me,  and  not  start 
at  night  and  think  that  the  soft  hand  around  my  neck  is 
the  hangman’s  gripe.  Back  to  thyself,  henceforth  and 
for  ever,  my  busy  heart !  Let  not  thy  secret  stir  from  its 

*  In  vain  within  your  nuptial  chamber  will  you  shun  the  deadly 
spears,  the  hostile  shout  and  Ajax  eager  in  pursuit. 


210 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


gloomy  depth !  the  seal  is  on  the  tomb ;  henceforth  be 
the  spectre  laid.  Yes,  I  must  smooth  my  brow,  and 
teach  my  lip  restraint,  and  smile  and  talk  like  other  men. 
I  have  taken  to  my  hearth  a  watch,  tender,  faithful, 
anxious  —  but  a  watch.  Farewell  the  unguarded  hour! 
• — the  soul’s  relief  in  speech  —  the  dark  and  broken,  yet 
how  grateful!  confidence  with  self  —  farewell!  And 
come  thou  veil !  subtle,  close,  unvarying,  the  everlasting 
curse  of  eternal  hypocrisy,  that  under  thee,  as  night,  the 
vexed  within  may  sleep,  and  stir  not!  and  all,  in  truth 
concealment,  may  seem  repose  !  ” 

As  he  uttered  these  thoughts,  the  student  paused  and 
looked  on  the  extended  landscape  that  lay  below.  A 
heavy,  chill,  and  comfortless  mist  sat  saddening  over  the 
earth.  Not  a  leaf  stirred  on  the  autumnal  trees,  but  the 
moist  damps  fell  slowly  and  with  a  mournful  murmur 
upon  the  unwaving  grass.  The  outline  of  the  morning 
sun  was  visible,  but  it  gave  forth  no  lustre :  a  ring  of 
watery  and  dark  vapor  girded  the  melancholy  orb.  Far 
at  the  entrance  of  the  valley  the  wild  fern  showed  red  and 
faded,  and  the  first  march  of  the  deadly  winter  was  already 
heralded  by  that  drear  and  silent  desolation  which  cradles 
the  winds  and  storms.  But  amidst  this  cheerless  scene, 
the  distant  note  of  the  merry  marriage-bell  floated  by, 
like  the  good  spirit  of  the  wilderness,  and  the  student 
rather  paused  to  hearken  to  the  note  than  to  survey  the 
scene. 

“My  marriage-bell!”  said  he;  “could  I  two  short 
years  back  have  dreamed  of  this?  My  marriage-bell! 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


21  i 


How  fondly  my  poor  mother,  when  first  she  learned  pride 
for  her  young  scholar,  would  predict  this  day,  and  blend 
its  festivities  with  the  honor  and  the  wealth  her  sol  was 
to  acquire  !  Alas  !  can  we  have  no  science  to  30unt  the 
stars  aud  forebode  the  black  eclipse  of  the  future  ?  But 
peace !  peace !  peace !  I  am,  I  will,  I  shall  be  happy 
now  !  Memory,  I  defy  thee  !  ” 

He  uttered  the  last  words  in  a  deep  and  intense  tone, 
and  turning  away  as  the  joyful  peal  again  broke  distinctly 
on  his  ear, — 

“My  marriage-bell!  Oh,  Madeline  !  how  wondrously 
beloved !  how  unspeakably  dear  thou  art  to  me  !  What 
hast  thou  conquered?  how  many  reasons  for  resolve; 
how  vast  an  army  in  the  Past  has  thy  bright  and  tender 
purity  overthrown!  But  thou,  —  no,  never  slialt  thou 
repent !  ”  And  for  several  minutes  the  sole  thought  of 
the  soliloquist  was  love.  But  scarce  consciously  to  him¬ 
self,  a  spirit  not,  to  all  seeming,  befitted  to  that  bridal- 
day, —  vague,  restless,  impressed  with  the  dark  and  flut¬ 
tering  shadow  of  coming  change,  had  taken  possession 
of  his  breast,  and  did  not  long  yield  the  mastery  to  any 
brighter  and  more  serene  emotion. 

“And  why?”  he  said,  as  this  spirit  regained  its  empire 
over  him,  and  he  paused  before  the  “starred  tubes”  of 
his  beloved  science  —  “and  why  this  chill,  this  shiver,  in 
the  midst  of  hope?  Can  the  mere  breath  of  the  seasons, 
the  weight  or  lightness  of  the  atmosphere,  the  outward 
gloom  or  smile  of  the  brute  mass  called  Nature,  affect 
us  tnus  ?  Out  on  this  empty  science,  this  vain  knowledge, 


V 


212 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


this  little  lore,  if  we  are  so  fooled  by  the  vile  clay  and 
the  common  air  from  our  one  great  empire  —  self!  Great 
God  !  hast  thou  made  us  in  mercy  or  in  disdain  ?  Placed 
in  this  narrow  world, —  darkness  and  cloud  around  us, — 
no  fixed  rule  for  men, — creeds,  morals,  changing  in  every 
clime,  and  growing  like  herbs  upon  the  mere  soil, —  we 
struggle  to  dispel  the  shadows ;  we  grope  around ;  from 
our  own  heart  and  our  sharp  and  hard  endurance  we 
strike  our  own  light, —  for  what?  to  show  us  what  dupes 
we  are  !  creatures  of  accident,  tools  of  circumstance,  blind 
instruments  of  the  scorner  Fate; — the  very  mind,  the 
very  reason,  a  bound  slave  to  the  desires,  the  weakness 
of  the  clay;  —  affected  by  a  cloud,  dulled  by  the  damps 
of  the  foul  marsh;  —  stricken  from  power  to  weakness, 
from  sense  to  madness,  to  gaping  idiocy,  or  delirious 
raving,  by  a  putrid  exhalation!  —  a  rheum,  a  chill,  and 
Caesar  trembles !  The  world’s  gods,  that  slay  or  enlighten 
millions  —  poor  puppets  to  the  same  rank  imp  which  calls 
up  the  fungus  or  breeds  the  worm, —  pah!  How  littlb 
worth  is  it  in  this  strange  world  to  be  wise !  Strange, 
strange,  how  my  heart  sinks!  Well,  the  better  sign,  the 
better  sign  !  in  danger  it  never  sank.” 

Absorbed  in  these  reflections,  Aram  had  not  for  some 
minutes  noticed  the  sudden  ceasing  of  the  bell;  but  now, 
as  he  again  paused  from  his  irregular  and  abrupt  pacings 
along  the  chamber,  the  silence  struck  him,  and  looking 
forth,  and  striving  again  to  catch  the  note,  he  saw  a  little 
group  of  men,  amone*  whom  he  marked  the  erect  and 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


213 


comely  form  of  Rowland  Lester,  approaching  towards  the 
house. 

“What!”  he  thought,  “do  they  come  for  me?  Is  it 
late?  Have  I  played  the  laggard?  Nay,  it  yet  v.ants 
near  an  hour  to  the  time  they  expected  me.  Well,  some 
kindness, —  some  attention  from  my  good  father-in-law; 
I  must  thank  him  for  it.  What!  my  hand  trembles; 
how  weak  are  these  poor  nerves !  I  must  rest  and  recall 
my  mind  to  itself!” 

And.  indeed,  whether  or  not  from  the  novelty  and  im- 
portance  of  the  event  he  was  about  to  celebrate,  or  from 
some  presentiment,  occasioned,  as  he  would  fain  believe, 
by  the  mournful  and  sudden  change  in  the  atmosphere, 
an  embarrassment,  a  wavering,  a  fear,  very  unwonted  to 
the  calm  and  stately  self-possession  of  Eugene  Aram, 
made  itself  painfully  felt  throughout  his  frame.  He  sank 
down  in  his  chair  and  strove  to  recollect  himself;  it  was 
an  effort  in  which  he  had  just  succeeded,  when  a  loud 
knocking  was  heard  at  the  outer  door — it  swung  open — • 
several  voices  were  heard.  Aram  sprang  up,  pale,  breath¬ 
less,  his  lips  apart. 

“Great  God!”  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands. 
“Murderer!  —  was  that  the  word  I  heard  shouted  forth? 

—  ■The  voice,  too,  is  Walter  Lester’s.  Has  he  returned? 

—  can  he  have  learned - ?” 

To  rush  to  the  door, —  to  throw  across  it  a  long,  heavy, 
iron  bar,  which  would  resist  assaults  of  no  common 
strength,  was  his  first  impulse.  Thus  enabled  to  gain 
time  tor  reflection,  his  active  and  alarmed  mind  ran  over 


214 


EUGENE  ARAM 


the  whole  field  of  expedient  and  conjecture.  Again, 
“Murderer!”  “Stay  me  not,”  cried  Walter  from  below; 
“  my  hand  shall  seize  the  murderer!” 

Guess  was  now  over;  danger  and  death  were  march¬ 
ing  on  him.  Escape, —  how! — whither?  the  height  for¬ 
bade  tne  thought  of  flight  from  the  casement !  — the  door  ? 
- — he  heard  loud  steps  already  hurrying  up  the  stairs;  — 
his  hands  clutched  convulsively  at  his  breast,  where  his 
fire-arms  wore  generally  concealed, — they  were  left  be¬ 
low.  He  glanced  one  lightning  glance  round  the  room* 
no  weapon  of  any  kind  was  at  hand.  His  brain  reeled 
for  a  moment,  his  breath  gasped,  a  mortal  sickness  passed 
over  his  heart,  and  then  the  mind  triumphed  over  all. 
He  drew  up  to  his  full  height,  folded  his  arms  doggedly 
on  his  breast,  and  muttering, — 

“The  accuser  comes, —  I  have  it  still  to  refute  the 
charge  :  ”  —  he  stood  prepared  to  meet,  nor  despairing  to 
evade,  the  worst. 

As  waters  close  over  the  object  which  divided  them, 
all  these  thoughts,  these  fears,  and  this  resolution,  had 
been  but  the  work,  the  agitation,  and  the  succeeding 
calm,  of  the  moment;  that  moment  was  passed. 

“Admit  us !  ”  cried  the  voice  of  Walter  Lester,  knock¬ 
ing  fiercely  at  the  door. 

“Not  so  fervently,  boy,”  said  Lester,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  nephew’s  shoulder;  “your  tale  is  yet  to  be  proved 
. —  I  believe  it  not:  treat  him  as  innocent,  I  pray  —  1 
command,  till  you  have  shown  him  guilty  ” 

“Away,  uncle!”  said  the  fiery  Walter;  “he  is  my 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


215 


father’s  murderer.  God  hath  given  justice  to  my  hands.” 
These  words,  uttered  in  a  lower  key  than  before,  were 
but  indistinctly  heard  by  Aram  through  the  massy  door. 

“Open,  or  we  shall  force  our  entrance !  ”  shouted  Wal¬ 
ter  again ;  and  Aram,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  replied 
in  a  clear  and  sonorous  voice,  so  that  an  angel,  had  one 
spoken,  could  not  have  more  deeply  impressed  the  heart 
of  Rowland  Lester  with  a  conviction  of  the  student’s  in¬ 
nocence, — 

“Who  knocks  so  rudely?  —  what  means  this  violence? 
I  open  my  doors  to  my  friends.  Is  it  a  friend  who  asks 
it?” 

“ I  ask  it,”  said  Rowland  Lester,  in  a  trembling  and 
agitated  voice.  “There  seems  some  dreadful  mistake: 
come  forth,  Eugene,  and  rectify  it  by  a  word.” 

“Is  it  you,  Rowland  Lester?  —  it  is  enough.  I  was 
but  with  my  books,  and  had  secured  myself  from  intru¬ 
sion.  Enter.” 

The  bar  was  withdrawn,  the  door  was  burst  open,  and 
even  Walter  Lester  —  even  the  officers  of  justice  with  him 
—  drew  back  for  a  moment,  as  they  beheld  the  lofty 
brow,  the  majestic  presence,  the  features  so  unutterably 
calm,  of  Eugene  Aram. 

“What  want  you,  sirs?”  said  he,  unmoved  and  unfal¬ 
tering,  though  in  the  officers  of  justice  he  recognized 
faces  he  had  known  before,  and  in  that  distant  town  in 
which  all  that  he  dreaded  in  the  past  lay  treasured  up. 
At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  spell  that  for  an  instant 
had  arrested  the  step  of  the  avenging  son  melted  away. 

[I.  — 19 


216 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“Seize  him!”  he  cried  to  the  officers;  “you  see  your 
prisoner.” 

“Hold  !  ”  cried  Aram  drawing  back ;  “by  what  autho¬ 
rity  is  this  outrage?  —  for  what  am  I  arrested?” 

“Behold,”  said  Walter,  speaking  through  his  teeth  — 
“behold  our  warrant!  You  are  accused  of  murder! 
Know  you  the  name  of  Richard  Houseman?  Pause  — 
consider;  —  or  that  of  Daniel  Clarke?” 

Slowly  Aram  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  warrant,  and  it 
might  be  seen  that  his  face  was  a  shade  more  pale,  though 
his  look  did  not  quail,  or  his  nerves  tremble.  Slowly  he 
turned  his  gaze  upon  Walter,  and  then,  after  one  mo¬ 
ment’s  survey,  dropped  it  once  more  on  the  paperv 

“The  name  of  Houseman  is  not  unfamiliar  to  me,”  said 
he  calmly,  but  with  effort. 

“And  knew  you  Daniel  Clarke?” 

“What  mean  these  questions?”  said  Aram,  losing 
temper,  and  stamping  violently  on  the  floor;  “is  it  thus 
that  a  man  free  and  guiltless,  is  to  be  questioned  at  the 
behest,  or  rather  outrage,  of  every  lawless  boy  ?  Lead 
me  to  some  authority  meet  for  me  to  answer; — for  you, 
boy,  my  answer  is  contempt.” 

“Big  words  shall  not  save  thee,  murderer !  ”  cried  Wal¬ 
ter,  breaking  from  his  uncle,  who  in  vain  endeavored  to 
hold  him ;  and  laying  his  powerful  grasp  upon  Aram’s 
shoulder.  Livid  was  the  glare  that  shot  from  the  stu¬ 
dent’s  eye  upon  his  assailer ;  and  so  fearfully  did  his  fea¬ 
tures  work  and  change  with  the  passions  within  him,  that 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


217 


even  Walter  felt  a  strange  shudder  thrill  through  his 
frame. 

“Gentlemen,”  said  Aram,  at  last,  mastering  his  emo¬ 
tions,  and  resuming  some  portion  of  the  remarkable  dig¬ 
nity  that  characterized  his  usual  bearing,  as  he  turned 
towards  the  officers  of  justice, —  “I  call  upon  you  to  dis¬ 
charge  your  duty;  if  this  be  a  rightful  warrant,  I  am 
your  prisoner,  but  I  am  not  this  man’s.  I  command 
your  protection  from  him !  ” 

Walter  had  already  released  his  gripe,  and  said,  in  a 
muttered  voice, — 

“My  passion  misled  me;  violence  is  unworthy  my 
solemn  cause.  God  and  Justice  —  not  these  hands  —  are 
my  avengers.” 

“  Your  avengers!”  said  Aram;  “what  dark  words  are 
these  ?  This  warrant  accuses  me  of  the  murder  of  one 
Daniel  Clarke :  what  is  he  to  thee  ?  ” 

“Mark  me,  man!”  said  Walter,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
Aram’s  countenance.  “The  name  of  Daniel  Clarke  was 
a  feigned  name;  the  real  name  was  Geoffrey  Lester: 
that  murdered  Lester  was  my  father,  and  the  brother  of 
him  whose  daughter,  had  I  not  come  to-day,  you  would 
have  called  your  wife  !  ” 

Aram  felt  while  these  words  were  uttered,  that  the  eyes 
of  all  in  the  room  were  on  him;  and  perhaps  that  know¬ 
ledge  enabled  him  not  to  reveal  by  outward  sign  what 
must  have  passed  within  during  the  awful  trial  of  that 
moment. 

“It  is  a  dreadful  tale,”  he  said,  “if  true;  dreadful  to 


218 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


me,  so  nearly  allied  to  that  family.  But  as  yet  I  grapple 
with  shadows.” 

“What!  does  not  your  conscience  now  convict  you?” 
cried  Walter,  staggered  by  the  calmness  of  the  prisoner. 
But  here  Lester,  who  could  no  longer  contain  himself, 
interposed :  he  put  by  his  nephew,  and  rushing  to  Aram, 
fell,  weeping,  upon  his  neck. 

“I  do  not  accuse  thee,  Eugene  —  my  son  —  my  son  — 
I  feel  —  I  know  thou  art  innocent  of  this  monstrous 
crime:  some  horrid  delusion  darkens  that  poor  boy’s 
sight.  You  —  you  —  who  would  walk  aside  to  save  a 
worm !  ”  and  the  poor  old  man,  overcome  with  his  emo¬ 
tions,  could  literally  say  no  more. 

Aram  looked  down  on  Lester  with  a  compassionate 
expression,  and  soothing  him  with  kind  words,  and  pro¬ 
mises  that  all  would  be  explained,  gently  moved  from  his 
hold,  and  anxious  to  terminate  the  scene,  silently  motion¬ 
ed  the  officers  to  proceed.  Struck  with  the  calmness  and 
dignity  of  his  manner,  and  fully  impressed  by  it  with  the 

notion  of  his  innocence,  the  officers  treated  him  with  a 

• 

marked  respect;  they  did  not  even  walk  by  his  side,  but 
suffered  him  to  follow  their  steps.  As  they  descended 
the  stairs,  Aram  turned  round  to  Walter,  with  a  bitter 
and  reproachful  countenance, — 

“And  so,  young  man,  your  malice  against  me  has 
reached  even  to  this !  Will  nothing  but  my  life  content 
you  ?  ” 

“Is  the  desire  of  execution  on  my  father’s  murderer, 
but  the  wish  of  malice?”  retorted  Walter;  though  his 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


219 


heart  yet  well-nigh  misgave  him  as  to  the  grounds  on 
which  his  suspicion  rested. 

Aram  smiled,  as  half  in  scorn,  half  through  incredulity, 
and,  shaking  his  head  gently,  moved  on  without  farther 
words. 

The  three  old  women,  who  had  remained  in  listening 
astonishment  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  gave  way  as  the 
men  descended;  but  the  one  who  so  long  had  been 
Aram’s  solitary  domestic,  and  who,  from  her  deafness, 
was  still  benighted  and  uncomprehending  as  to  the  causes 
of  his  seizure,  though  from  that  very  reason  her  alarm 
was  the  greater  and  more  acute, —  she  —  impatiently 
thrusting  away  the  officers,  and  mumbling  some  unintelli¬ 
gible  anathema  as  she  did  so  —  flung  herself  at  the  feet 
of  a  master,  whose  quiet  habits  arid  constant  kindness 
had  endeared  him  to  her  humble  and  faithful  heart,  and 
exclaimed, — 

“What  are  they  doing?  Have  they  the  heart  to  ill- 
use  you  ?  0  master,  God  bless  you  !  God  shield  you  ! 

I  shall  never  see  you,  who  was  my  only  friend  —  who  was 
every  one’s  friend  —  any  more!” 

Aram  drew  himself  from  her,  and  said  with  a  quivering 
lip  to  Rowland  Lester, — 

“If  her  fears  are  true  —  if — if  I  never  more  return 
hither,  see  that  her  old  age  does  not  starve  —  does  not 
want.” 

Lester  could  not  speak  for  sobbing,  but  the  request 
was  remembered.  And  now  Aram,  turning  aside  his 
proud  head  to  conceal  his  emotion,  beheld  open  the  door 
19  * 


220 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


of  the  room  so  trimly  prepared  for  Madeline’s  reception; 
the  flowers  smiled  upon  him  from  their  stands.  “  Lead 
on,  gentlemen,”  he  said  quickly.  And  so  Eugene  Aram 
passed  his  threshold  ! 

“  Ho,  ho  !  ”  muttered  the  old  hag,  whose  predictions  in 
the  morning  had  been  so  ominous, —  “Ho,  ho!  you’ll 
believe  Goody  Darkmans  another  time !  Providence 
respects  the  sayings  of  the  ould.  ’Twas  not  for  nothing 
the  rats  grinned  at  me  last  night.  But  let’s  in  and  have 
a  warm  glass.  He,  he !  there  will  be  all  the  strong 
liquors  for  us  now;  the  Lord  is  merciful  to  the  poor!” 

As  the  little  group  proceeded  through  the  valley,  the 
officers  first,  Aram  and  Lester  side  by  side,  Walter  with 
his  hand  on  his  pistol  and  his  eye  on  the  prisoner,  a  little 
behind  —  Lester  endeavored  to  cheer  the  prisoner’s  spirits 
and  his  own,  by  insisting  on  the  madness  of  the  charge, 
and  the  certainty  of  instant  acquittal  from  the  magistrate 
to  whom  they  were  bound,  and  who  was  esteemed  the 
one  both  most  acute  and  most  just  in  the  county.  Aram 
interrupted  him  somewhat  abruptly, — 

“My  friend,  enough  of  this  presently.  But  Madeline 
. —  what  knows  she  as  yet?” 

“Nothing:  of  course,  we  kept  —  ” 

“Exactly  —  exactly:  you  have  done  wisely.  Why 
need  she  learn  any  thing  as  yet?  Say  an  arrest  for  debt 
. —  a  mistake  —  an  absence  but  of  a  day  or  so  at  most; — • 
you  understand  ?  ” 

“Yes.  Will  you  not  see  her,  Eugene,  before  you  go 
and  say  this  yourself?” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


221 


“I!  —  0  God!  —  I!  to  whom  this  day  was - No, 

no;  save  me,  I  implore  you,  from  the  agony  of  such  a 
contrast — an  interview  so  mournful  and  unavailing.  No, 
we  must  not  meet!  But  whither  go  we  now?  Not  — 
not,  surely,  through  all  the  idle  gossips  of  the  village  — 
the  crowd  already 'excited  to  gape,  and  stare,  and  specu¬ 
late  on  the - ” 

“No,”  interrupted  Lester;  “the  carriages  await  us  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  valley.  I  thought  of  that  —  for 
the  rash  boy  behind  seems  to  have  changed  his  nature. 
I  loved  —  Heaven  knows  how  I  loved  my  brother!  — 
but  before  I  would  let  suspicion  thus  blind  reason,  I 
would  suffer  inquiry  to  sleep  for  ever  on  his  fate.” 

“Your  nephew,”  said  Aram,  “has  ever  wronged  me. 
But  waste  not  words  on  him:  let  us  think  only  of  Made¬ 
line.  Will  you  go  back  at  once  to  her,  tell  her  a  tale  to 
lull  her  apprehensions,  and  then  follow  us  with  haste? 
I  am  alone  among  enemies  till  you  come.” 

Lester  was  about  to  answer,  when,  at  a  turn  in  the 
road  which  brought  the  carriage  within  view,  they  per¬ 
ceived  two  figures  in  white  hastening  towards  them ;  and 
ere  Aram  was  prepared  for  the  surprise,  Madeline  had 
sunk,  pale,  trembling,  and  all  breathless  on  his  breast. 

“I  could  not  keep  her  back,”  said  Ellinor,  apologeti¬ 
cally,  to  her  father. 

“Back!  and  why?  Am  I  not  in  my  proper  place?” 
cried  Madeline,  lifting  her  face  from  Aram’s  breast ;  and 
then,  as  her  eyes  circled  the  group,  and  rested  on  Aram’s 
countenance,  now  no  longer  calm,  but  full  of  woe  —  of 


222 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


passion  —  of  disappointed  love  —  of  anticipated  despair — « 
she  rose,  and  gradually  recoiling  with  a  fear  which  struck 
dumb  her  voice,  thrice  attempted  to  speak,  and  thrice 
failed. 

“But  what — what  is  —  what  means  this?”  exclaimed 
Ellinor.  “Why  do  you  weep,  father?  Why  does  Eu¬ 
gene  turn  away  his  face?  You  answer  not.  Speak,  for 
God’s  sake!  These  strangers  —  what  are  they?  And 
you,  Walter,  you  —  why  are  you  so  pale?  Why  do  you 
thus  knit  your  brows  and  fold  your  arms  ?  You  —  you 
will  tell  me  the  meaning  of  this  dreadful  silence — -this 
scene!  Speak,  cousin  —  dear  cousin,  speak  !  ” 

“  Speak  !  ”  cried  Madeline,  finding  voice  at  length,  but 
in  the  sharp  and  straining  voice  of  wild  terror,  in  which 
they  recognized  no  note  of  the  natural  music.  That 
single  word  sounded  rather  as  a  shriek  than  an  adjura¬ 
tion  ;  and  so  piercingly  it  ran  through  the  hearts  of  all 
present,  that  the  very  officers,  hardened  as  their  trade  had 
made  them,  felt  as  if  they  would  rather  have  faced  death 
than  answered  that  command. 

A  dead,  long,  dreary  pause,  and  Aram  broke  it. 
“Madeline  Lester,”  said  he,  “prove  yourself  worthy  of 
the  hour  of  trial.  Exert  yourself;  arouse  your  heart; 
be  prepared !  You  are  the  betrothed  of  one  whose  soul 
never  quailed  before  man’s  angry  word.  Remember  that, 
and  fear  not !  ” 

“I  will  not  —  I  will  not,  Eugene!  Speak  —  only 

speak !  ” 

“  You  have  loved  me  in  good  report;  trust  me  now  ia 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


223 


ill.  They  accuse  me  of  crime  —  a  heinous  crime!  At 
first,  I  would  not  have  told  you  the  real  charge;  pardon 
me,  I  wronged  you :  now,  know  all !  They  accuse  me,  I 
say,  of  crime.  Of  what  crime  ?  you  ask.  Ay,  I  scarce 
know,  so  vague  is  the  charge — so  fierce  the  accuser: 
’ut,  prepare,  Madeline — it  is  of  murder!” 

Raised  as  her  spirits  had  been  by  the  haughty  and 
earnest  tone  of  Aram’s  exhortation,  Madeline  now,  though 
she  turned  deadly  pale  —  though  the  earth  swam  round 
and  round — yet  repressed  the  shriek  upon  her  lips,  as 
those  horrid  words  shot  into  her  soul. 

“You!  —  murder!  —  you!  And  who  dares  accuse 
vou  ?  ” 

“Behold  him  —  your  cousin!” 

Ellinor  heard,  turned,  fixed  her  eyes  on  Walter’s  sullen 
brow  and  motionless  attitude,  and  fell  senseless  to  the 
earth.  Not  thus  Madeline.  As  there  is  an  exhaustion 
that  forbids,  not  invites  repose,  so,  when  the  mind  is 
thoroughly  on  the  rack,  the  common  relief  to  anguish  is 
not  allowed ;  the  senses  are  too  sharply  strung,  thus 
happily  to  collapse  into  forgetfulness  ;  the  dreadful  inspi¬ 
ration  that  agony  kindles,  supports  nature  while  it  con¬ 
sumes  it.  Madeline  passed,  without  a  downward  glance, 
by  the  lifeless  body  of  her  sister ;  and  walking  with  a 
steady  step  to  Walter,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  fixing  on  his  countenance  that  soft  clear  eye,  which 
was  now  lit  with  a  searching  and  preternatural  glare, 
and  seemed  to  pierce  into  his  soul,  she  said, — 

“Walter!  do  I  hear  aright?  Am  I  awake?  —  Is  it 

2h 


224 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


you  who  accuse  Eugene  Aram?  —  your  Madeline’s  be¬ 
trothed  husband, —  Madeline,  whom  you  once  loved?  — 
Of  what?  —  of  crimes  which  death  alone  can  punish. 
Away!  —  it  is  not  you  —  I  know  it  is  not.  Say  that  I 
am  mistaken  —  that  I  am  mad,  if  you  will.  Come,  Wal¬ 
ter,  relieve  me:  let  me  not  abhor  the  very  air  jou 
breathe !  ” 

“Will  no  one  have  mercv  on  me?”  cried  Walter,  rent 
to  the  heart,  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  In 
the  fire  and  heat  of  vengeance,  he  had  not  recked  of  this. 
He  had  only  thought  of  justice  to  a  father  —  punishment 
to  a  villain  —  rescue  for  a  credulous  girl.  The  woe  —  the 
horror  he  was  about  to  inflict  on  all  he  most  loved;  this 
had  not  struck  upon  him  with  due  force  till  now! 

“Mercy — you  talk  of  mercy!  I  knew  it  could  not  be 
true!”  said  Madeline,  trying  to  pluck  her  cousin’s  hand 
from  his  face:  “you  could  not  have  dreamed  of  wrong 
to  Eugene  —  and  —  and  upon  this  day.  Say  we  have 
erred,  or  that  you  have  erred,  and  we  will  forgive  and 
bless  vou  even  now  !  ” 

V 

Aram  had  not  interfered  in  this  scene.  He  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  cousins,  not  uninterested  to  see  what 
effect  Madeline’s  touching  words  might  produce  on  his 
accuser:  meanwhile,  she  continued, —  “Speak  to  me, 
Walter  —  dear  Walter,  speak  to  me!  Are  you  my  cou¬ 
sin,  my  playfellow  —  are  you  the  one  to  blight  our  hopes 

—  to  dash  our  joys  —  to  bring  dread  and  terror  into  a 
home  so  lately  all  peace  and  sunshine  —  your  own  home 

—  your  childhood’s  home?  What  have  you  done?  what 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


225 


have  you  dared  to  do?  Accuse  him! —  of  what?  Mur¬ 
der!  speak,  speak. — Murder,  ha!  ha!  —  murder!  nay, 
not  so! — you  would  not  venture  to  come  here  —  you 
would  not  let  me  take  your  hand — you  would  not  look 
us,  your  uncle,  your  more  than  sisters,  in  the  face,  if  you 
could  nurse  in  your  heart  this  lie  —  this  black,  horrid 
lie !  ” 

Walter  withdrew  his  hands  —  and,  as  he  turned  his 
face,  said, — 

“Let  him  prove  his  innocence  —  pray  God  he  do!  —  I 
am  not  his  accuser,  Madeline.  His  accusers  are  the 
bones  of  my  dead  father!  —  Save  these,  Heaven  alone, 
and  the  revealing  earth,  are  witness  against  him!” 

“Your  father !  ”  said  Madeline,  staggering  back  —  “  my 
lost  uncle  !  Nay, —  now  I  know,  indeed,  what  a  shadow 
has  appalled  us  all!  Did  you  know  my  uncle,  Eugene? 
—  Did  you  ever  see  Geoffrey  Lester?” 

“Never,  as  I  believe,  so  help  me  God!”  said  Aram, 
laying  his  hand  on  his  heart.  But  this  is  idle  now,”  as, 
recollecting  himself,  he  felt  that  the  case  had  gone  forth 
from  Walter’s  hands,  and  that  appeal  to  him  had  become 
vain. 

“Leave  us  now,  dearest  Madeline;  my  beloved  wife 
that  will  be,  that  is! — I  go  to  disprove  these  charges  — 
perhaps  I  shall  return  to-night.  Delay  not  my  acquittal, 
even  from  doubt  —  a  boy’s  doubt.  Come,  sirs.” 

“0  Eugene!  Eugene!”  cried  Madeline,  throwing  her¬ 
self  on  her  knees  before  him  —  “do  not  order  me  to  leave 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


326 

vou  now  —  now  in  the  hour  of  dread  —  I  will  not.  Nay, 
100k  not  so!  I  swear  I  will  not!  Father,  dear  father, 
come  and  plead  for  me  —  say  I  shall  go  with  you.  I  ask 
nothing  more.  Do  not  fear  for  my  nerves  —  cowardice 
is  gone.  I  will  not  shame  you, —  I  will  not  play  the  wo¬ 
man.  I  know  what  is  due  to  one  who  loves  him  —  try 
me,  only  try  me.  You  weep,  father,  you  shake  your 
head.  But  you,  Eugene  —  you  have  not  the  heart  to 
deny  me  ?  Think  —  think  if  I  stayed  here  to  count  the 
moments  till  you  return,  my  very  senses  would  leave  me. 
What  do  I  ask?  —  but  to  go  with  you,  to  be  the  first  to 
hail  your  triumph !  Had  this  happened  two  hours  hence, 
you  could  not  have  said  me  nay  —  I  should  have  claimed 
the  right  to  be  with  you;  I  now  but  implore  the  bless¬ 
ing. —  You  relent — you  relent  —  I  see  it!” 

“0  Heaven!”  exclaimed  Aram,  rising,  and  clasping 
her  to  his  breast,  and  wildly  kissing  her  face,  but  with 
cold  and  trembling  lips, —  “this  is,  indeed,  a  bitter  hour; 
let  me  not  sink  beneath  it.  Yes,  Madeline,  ask  your 
father  if  he  consents;  —  I  hail  your  strengthening  pre¬ 
sence  as  that  of  an  angel.  I  will  not  be  the  one  to  sever 
you  from  my  side.” 

“You  are  right,  Eugene,”  said  Lester,  who  was  sup¬ 
porting  Ellinor,  not  yet  recovered, —  “let  her  go  with  us; 
it  is  but  common  kindness,  and  common  mercy.” 

Madeline  uttered  a  cry  of  joy  (joy  even  at  such  a  mo* 
ment !)  and  clung  fast  to  Eugene’s-  arm,  as  if  for  assur- 
ana  3  that  they  were  not  indeed  to  be  separated. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


22*! 


By  this  time  some  of  Lester’s  servants,  who  had  from  a 
distance  followed  their  young  mistresses,  reached  the 
spot.  To  their  care  Lester  gave  the  still  scarce  reviving 
Ellinor;  and  then,  turning  round  with  a  severe  counte¬ 
nance  to  Walter,  said,  “Come,  sir,  your  rashness  has 
done  sufficient  wrong  for  the  present;  come  nowr,  and  sec 
how  soon  your  suspicions  will  end  in  shame.” 

“Justice,  and  blood  for  blood!”  said  Walter,  sternly; 
but  his  heart  felt  as  if  it  were  broken.  His  venerable 
uncle’s  tears  —  Madeline’s  look  of  horror,  as  she  turned 
from  him  Ellinor,  all  lifeless,  and  he  not  daring  to  ap¬ 
proach  her — this  was  his  work  !  He  pulled  his  hat  over 
his  eyes,  and  hastened  into  the  carriage  alone.  Lester, 
Madeline,  and  Aram,  followed  in  the  other  vehicle;  and 
the  two  officers  contented  themselves  with  mounting  the 
box  certain  that  the  prisoner  would  attempt  no  escape. 


Jl.—  84 


228 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  JUSTICE.  —  THE  DEPARTURE.  —  THE  EQUANIMITY  OF 
THE  CORPORAL  IN  BEARING  THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  OTHER 

PEOPLE. —  THE  EXAMINATION;  ITS  RESULT. - ARAM’S 

CONDUCT  IN  PRISON.  —  THE  ELASTICITY  OF  OUR  HUMAN 
NATURE.  —  A  VISIT  FROM  THE  EARL.  —  WALTER’S  DETER¬ 
MINATION. —  MADELINE. 


“  Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed.” 

Measure  for  Measure. 

On  arriving  at  Sir - ’s,  a  disappointment,  for  which, 

had  they  previously  conversed  with  the  officers,  they 
might  have  been  prepared,  awaited  them.  The  fact  was 
that  the  justice  had  only  endorsed  the  warrant  sent  from 
Yorkshire;  and  after  a  very  short  colloquy,  in  which  he 
expressed  his  regret  at  the  circumstance,  his  conviction 
that  the  charge  would  be  disproved,  and  a  few  other 
courteous  commonplaces,  he  gave  Aram  to  understand 
that  the  matter  did  not  now  rest  with  him,  but  that  it  was 
to  Yorkshire  that  the  officers  were  bound,  and  before  Mr. 
Thornton,  a  magistrate  of  that  county,  that  the  examina¬ 
tion  was  to  take  place.  “All  I  can  do,”  said  the  magis¬ 
trate,  “I  have  already  done;  but  I  wished  for  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  informing  you  of  it.  I  have  written  to  mv 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


229 


brothel*  justice  at  full  length  respecting  your  high  charac¬ 
ter,  and  treating  the  habits  and  rectitude  of  your  life 
alone  as  a  sufficient  refutation  of  so  monstrous  a 
charge.” 

For  the  first  time  a  visible  embarrassment  came  over 
the  firm  nerves  of  the  prisoner :  he  seemed  to  look  with 
great  uneasiness  at  the  prospect  of  this  long  and  dreary 
journey,  and  for  such  an  end.  Perhaps,  the  very  notion 
of  returning  as  a  suspected  criminal  to  that  part  of  the 
country  where  a  portion  of  his  youth  had  been  passed,  was 
sufficient  to  disquiet  and  deject  him.  All  this  while  his 
poor  Madeline  seemed  actuated  by  a  spirit  beyond  her¬ 
self;  she  would  not  be  separated  from  his  side  —  she  held 
his  baud  in  hers  —  she  whispered  comfort  and  courage  at 
the  very  moment  when  his  own  heart  most  sank.  The 
magistrate  wiped  his  eyes  when  he  saw  a  creature  so 
young,  so  beautiful,  in  circumstances  so  fearful,  and  bear¬ 
ing  up  with  an  energy  so  little  to  be  expected  from  her 
years  and  delicate  appearance.  Aram  said  but  little  ;  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  right  hand  for  a  few  moments, 
as  if  to  hide  a  passing  emotion,  a  sudden  weakness. 
When  he  removed  it,  all  vestige  of  color  had  died  away; 
his  face  was  pale  as  that  of  one  who  had  risen  Irom  the 
grave ;  but  it  was  settled  and  composed. 

“  It  is  a  hard  pang,  sir,”  said  he,  with  a  faint  smile ; 
“so  many  miles  —  so  many  days  —  so  long  a  deferment 
of  knowing  the  best,  or  preparing  to  meet  the  worst. 
But,  be  it  so!  I  thank  you,  sir, —  I  thank  you  all  —  Les¬ 
ter,  Madeline,  for  your  kindness;  you  two  must  now 


230 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


leave  me;  the  brand  is  on  my  name  —  the  suspected  man 
is  no  tit  object  for  love  or  friendship!  Farewell!” 

“  We  go  with  you  !  ”  said  Madeline  firmly,  and  in  a  very 
low  voice. 

Aram’s  eyes  sparkled,  but  lie  waved  his  hand  im¬ 
patiently. 

“We  go  with  you,  my  friend!”  repeated  Lester. 

And  so,  indeed,  not  to  dwell  long  on  a  painful  scene, 
it  was  finally  settled.  Lester  and  his  two  daughters  that 
evening  followed  Aram  to  the  dark  and  fatal  bourne  to 
which  he  was  bound. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Walter,  seizing  his  uncle’s  hands, 
whispered  — 

“For  Heaven’s  sake,  do  not  be  rash  in  your  friendship. 
You  have  not  yet  learned  all.  I  tell  you  that  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  his  guilt!  Remember,  it  is  a  brother  for 
whom  you  mourn!  will  you  countenance  his  murderer  ?  ” 

Lester,  despite  himself,  was  struck  by  the  earnestness 
with  which  his  nephew  spoke,  but  the  impression  died 
away  as  the  words  ceased :  so  strong  and  deep  had  been 
the  fascination  which  Eugene  Aram  had  exercised  over 
the  hearts  of  all  once  drawn  within  the  near  circle  of  his 
attraction,  that  had  the  charge  of  murder  been  made 
against  Jiimself,  Lester  could  not  have  repelled  it  with  a 
more  entire  conviction  of  the  innocence  of  the  accused. 
Still,  however,  the  deep  sincerity  of  his  nephew’s  manner 
in  some  measure  served  to  soften  his  resentment  towards 
him. 

“No,  no,  boy!”  said,  he,  drawing  away  his  hand, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


231 


“Rowland  Lester  is  not  the  one  to  desert  a  friend  in  the 
day  of  darkness  and  the  hour  of  need.  Be  silent,  I  say! 
—  My  brother,  my  poor  brother,  you  tell  me,  has  been 
murdered.  I  will  see  iustice  done  to  him:  but,  Aram! 
Fie'!  fie  !  it  is  a  name  that  wrould  whisper  falsehood  to 
the  loudest  accusation.  Go,  Walter!  go!  I  do  not 
blame  you  !  —  you  may  be  right  —  a  murdered  father  is  a 
diead  and  awful  memory  to  a  son!  What  wonder  that 
the  thought  warps  your  judgmeut?  But  go!  Eugene 
was  to  me  both  a  guide  and  a  blessing;  a  father  in  wis¬ 
dom,  a  son  in  love.  I  cannot  look  on  his  accuser’s  face 
without  anguish.  Go!  we  shall  meet  again. —  Howl 
Go!” 

“Enough,  sir!”  said  Walter,  partly  in  anger,  partly 
in  sorrow; — “Time  be  the  judge  between  us  all!” 

With  those  words  he  turned  from  the  house,  and  pro¬ 
ceeded  on  foot  towards  a  cottage  half-way  between  Grass- 
dale  and  the  magistrate’s  house,  at  which,  previous  to  his 
return  to  the  former  place,  he  had  prudently  left  the  cor¬ 
poral —  not  willing  to  trust  to  that  person’s  discretion, 
as  to  the  tales  and  scandal  that  he  might  propagate 
throughout  the  village,  on  a  matter  so  painful  and  so 
dark. 

Let  the  world  wag  as  it  will,  there  are  some  tempers 
which  its  vicissitudes  never  reach.  Nothing  makes  a  pic¬ 
ture  of  distress  more  sad  than  the  portrait  of  some  indi¬ 
vidual  sitting  indifferently  looking  on  in  the  back-ground. 
This  was  a  secret  Hogarth  knew  well.  Mark  his  death¬ 
bed  scenes:  —  Poverty  and  Vice  worked  up  into  horror 
20* 


232 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


—  and  the  physicians  in  the  corner  wrangling  for  the  feel 

—  or  the  child  playing  with  the  coffin  —  or  the  nurse 
filching  what  fortune,  harsh,  yet  less  harsh  than  humanity, 
might  have  left.  In  the  melancholy  depth  of  humor  that 
steeps  both  our  fancy  and  our  heart  in  the  immo'ital 
romance  of  Cervantes,  (for.  how  profoundly  melancholy 
is  it  to  be  compelled  by  one  gallant  folly  to  laugh  at  all 
that  is  gentle,  and  brave,  and  wise,  and  generous !)  no¬ 
thing  grates  on  us  more  than  when  —  last  scene  of  all 

—  the  poor  knight  lies  dead, —  his  exploits  for  ever  over 
■ — for  ever  dumb  his  eloquent  discourses:  that  when,  I 
say,  we  are  told  that,  despite  of  his  grief,  even  little 
Sancho  did  not  eat  or  drink  the  less: — these  touches 
open  to  us  the  real  world,  it  is  true ;  but  it  is  not  the 
best  part  of  it.  Certain  it  was,  that  when  Walter,  full 
of  contending  emotions  at  all  he  had  witnessed, —  har¬ 
assed,  tortured,  yet  also  elevated,  by  his  feelings  —  stop¬ 
ped  opposite  the  cottage  door,  and  saw  there  the  corporal 
sitting  comfortably  in  the  porch, —  his  vile  modicum  Sa- 
bini  before  him  —  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  —  and  a  compla¬ 
cent  expression  of  satisfaction  diffusing  itself  over  fea¬ 
tures  which  shrewdness  and  selfishness  had  marked  for 
their  own; — certain  it  was,  that,  at  this  sight,  Walter 
experienced  a  more  displeasing  revulsion  of  feeling  —  a 
more  entire  conviction  of  sadness  —  a  more  consummate 
disgust  of  this  weary  world  and  the  motley  masquers  that 
walk  therein,  than  all  the  tragic  scenes  he  had  just  wit¬ 
nessed  had  produced  within  him. 

“And  well,  sir.”  said  the  corporal,  slowly  rising,  “how 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


233 


did  it  go  off?  —  wasn’t  the  villain  bash’d  to  the  dust?  — 
You’ve  nabbed  him  safe,  I  hopes?” 

“Silence!”  said  Walter,  sternly;  prepare  for  our 
departure.  The  chaise  will  be  here  forthwith  ;  we  return 
to  Yorkshire  this  day.  Ask  me  no  more  now.” 

“A — well  —  baugh  !  ”  said  the  corporal. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Walter  walked  to  and  fro 
the  road  before  the  cottage.  The  chaise  arrived ;  the 
luggage  was  put  in.  Walter’s  foot  was  on  the  step;  but 
before  the  corporal  mounted  the  rumbling  dicky,  that 
invaluable  domestic  hemmed  thrice. 

“And  had  you  time,  sir,  to  think  of  poor  Jacob,  and 
slip  in  a  wrord  to  your  uncle  about  the  bit  tato  ground  ?” 

We  pass  over  the  space  of  time,  short  in  fact,  long  in 
suffering,  that  elapsed,  till  the  prisoner  and  his  compan¬ 
ions  reached  Knaresbro’.  Aram’s  conduct  during  this 
time  wrns  not  only  calm  but  cheerful.  The  stoical  doc¬ 
trines  he  had  affected  through  life,  he  on  this  trying  in¬ 
terval  called  into  remarkable  exertion.  He  it  was  who 
nowT  supported  the  spirits  of  his  mistress  and  his  friend ; 
and  though  he  no  longer  affected  to  be  sanguine  of  ac¬ 
quittal —  though  again  and  again  lie'  urged  upon  them 
the  gloomy  fact  —  first,  how  improbable  it  was  that  this 
course  had  been  entered  into  against  him  without  strong 
presumption  of  guilt;  and  secondly,  how  little  less  im¬ 
probable  it  wms,  that  at  that  distance  of  time  he  should 
be  able  to  procure  evidence,  or  remember  circumstances, 
sufficient  on  the  instant  to  set  aside  such  presumption, — 
he  yet  dwelt  partly  on  the  hope  of  ultimate  proof  of  his 


23* 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


innocence,  and  still  more  strongly  on  the  firmness  of  his 
own  mind  to  bear,  without  shrinking,  even  the  hardest 
fate. 

“Do  not,”  he  said  to  Lester,  “do  not  look  on  these 
trials  of  life  only  with  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Reflect 
how  poor  and  minute  a  segment,  in  the  vast  circle  of 
eternity,  existence  is  at  the  best.  Its  sorrows  and  its 
shame  are  but  moments.  Always  in  my  brightest  and 
youngest  hours  I  have  wrapped  my  heart  in  the  contem¬ 
plation  of  an  august  futurity:  — 

‘  The  soul,  secure  in  its  existence,  smiles 

At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point.’ 

Were  it  not  for  Madeline’s  dear  sake,  I  should  long  since 
have  been  over-weary  of  the  world.  As  it  is,  the  sooner, 
even  by  a  violent  and  unjust  fate,  we  leave  a  path  begirt 
with  snares  below  and  tempests  above,  the  happier  for 
that  soul  which  looks  to  its  lot  in  this  earth  as  the  least 
part  of  its  appointed  doom.” 

In  discourses  like  this,  which  the  nature  of  his  elo¬ 
quence  was  peculiarly  calculated  to  render  solemn  and 
impressive,  Aram  strove  to  prepare  his  friends  for  the 
worst,  and  perhaps  to  cheat,  or  to  steel,  himself.  Ever 
as  he  spoke  thus,  Lester  or  Ellinor  broke  on  him  with 
impatient  remonstrance;  but  Madeline,  as  if  imbued  with 
a  deeper  and  more  mournful  penetration  into  the  future, 
listened  in  tearless  and  breathless  attention.  She  gazed 
upon  him  with  a  look  that  shared  the  thought  he  express¬ 
ed,  though  it  read  not  (yet  she  dreamed  so)  the  heart 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


235 


from  which  it  came.  In  the  words  of  that  beautiful  poet, 
to  whose  true  nature,  so  full  of  unuttered  tenderness — so 
fraught  with  the  rich  nobility  of  love  —  we  have  begun 
slowly  to  awaken  — 

“  Her  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  her  heart, 

Her  eye  alone  proclaim’d  ‘we  will  not  part!’ 

Thy  ‘ hope ’  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee, 
Farewell  to  life  —  but  not  adieu  to  thee!”* 

They  arrived  at  noon  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Thornton, 
and  Aram  underwent  his  examination.  Though  he 
denied  most  of  the  particulars  in  Houseman’s  evidence, 
and  expressly  the  charge  of  murder,  his  commitment  was 
made  out ;  and  that  day  he  was  removed  by  the  officers 
(Barker  and  Moor,  who  had  arrested  him  at  Grassdale,) 
to  York  Castle,  to  await  his  trial  at  the  assizes. 

The  sensation  which  this  extraordinary  event  created 
throughout  the  country  was  wholly  unequalled.  Not 
only  in  Yorkshire,  and  the  county  in  which  he  had  of  late 
resided,  where  his  personal  habits  were  known,  but  even 
in  the  metropolis,  and  amongst  men  of  all  classes  in 
England,  it  appears  to  have  caused  one  mingled  feeling 
of  astonishment,  horror  and  incredulity,  which  in  our 
times  has  had  no  parallel  in  any  criminal  prosecution. 
The  peculiar  attributes  of  the  prisoner  —  his  genius  — 
his  learning  —  his  moral  life  —  the  interest  that  by  stu¬ 
dents  had  been  for  years  attached  to  his  name  —  his  ap¬ 
proaching  marriage  —  the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed 
since  the  crime  had  been  committed  —  the  singular  and 


*  Lara. 


•236 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


abrupt  manner,  the  wild  and  legendary  spot,  in  which  the 
skeleton  of  the  lost  man  had  been  discovered  —  the  im¬ 
perfect  rumors  —  the  dark  and  suspicious  evidence, —  all 
combined  to  make  a  tale  of  such  marvellous  incident,  and 
breeding  such  endless  conjecture,  that  we  cannot  wonder 
to  find  it  afterwards  received  a  place,  not  only  in  the 
temporary  chronicles,  but  even  in  the  permanent  histo¬ 
ries  of  the  period. 

Previous  to  Walter’s  departure  from  Knaresbro’  to 
Grassdale,  and  immediately  subsequent  to  the  discovery 
at  St.  Robert’s  Cave,  the  coroner’s  inquest  had  been 
held  upon  the  bones  so  mysteriously  and  suddenly  brought 
to  light.  Upon  the  witness  of  the  old  woman  at  whose 
house  Aram  had  lodged,  and  upon  that  of  Houseman, 
aided  by  some  circumstantial  and  less  weighty  evidence, 
had  been  issued  that  warrant  on  which  we  have  seen  the 
prisoner  apprehended. 

WTith  most  men  there  was  an  intimate  and  indignant 
persuasion  of  Aram’s  innocence;  and  at  this  day,  in  the 
county  where  he  last  resided,  there  still  lingers  the  same 
belief.  Firm  as  his  Gospel  faith,  that  conviction  rested 
in  the  mind  of  the  worthy  Lester;  and  he  sought,  by 
every  means  he  could  devise,  to  soothe  and  cheer  the 
confinement  of  his  friend.  In  prison,  however,  (indeed 
after  his  examination  —  after  Aram  had  made  himself 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  all  the  circumstantial  evi¬ 
dence  which  identified  Clarke  with  Geoffrey  Lester, — a 
story  that  till  then  he  had  persuaded  himself  wholly  to 
disbelieve,)  a  change  which,  in  the  presence  of  Madeline 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


237 


or  her  father,  he  vainly  attempted  wholly  to  conceal,  and 
to  which,  when  alone,  he  surrendered  himself  with  a 
gloomy  abstraction  —  came  over  his  mood,  and  dashed 
him  from  the  lofty  height  of  philosophy  from  which  he 
had  before  looked  down  on  the  peril  and  the  ills  below. 

Sometimes  he  would  gaze  on  Lester  with  a  strange  and 
glassy  eye,  and  mutter  inaudibly  to  himself,  as  if  unaware 
of  the  old  man’s  presence ;  at  others,  he  would  shrink 
from  Lester’s  proffered  hand,  and  start  abruptly  from  his 
professions  of  unaltered,  unalterable  regard;  sometimes 
he  would  sit  silently,  and,  with  a  changeless  and  stony 
countenance,  look  upon  Madeline  as  she  now  spoke  in 
that  exalted  tone  of  consolation  which  had  passed  away 
from  himself;  and  when  she  had  done,  instead  of  replying 
to  her  speech,  he  would  say  abruptly, —  “Ay,  at  the 
worst  you  love  me,  then  —  love  me  better  than  any  one 
on  earth  —  say  that,  Madeline,  again  say  that!” 

And  Madeline’s  trembling  lips  would  obey  the  demand. 

“Yes,”  he  would  renew,  “this  man,  whom  they  accuse 
me  of  murdering,  this, —  your  uncle, —  him  you  never  saw 
since  you  were  an  infant,  a  mere  infant;  him  you  could 
not  love!  What  was  he  to  you?  —  yet  it  is  dreadful  to 
think  of — dreadful,  dreadful!”  and  then  again  his  voice 
ceased ;  but  his  lips  moved  convulsively,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  to  speak  meanings  that  defied  words.  These 
alterations  in  his  bearing,  which  belied  his  steady  and 
resolute  character,  astonished  and  dejected  both  Made¬ 
line  and  her  father.  Sometimes  they  thought  that  his 
situation  had  shaken  his  reason,  or  that  the  horrible  sus- 


238  EUGENE  ARAM. 

/ 

pieion  of  having  murdered  the  uncle  of  his  intended  wife 
made  him  look  upon  themselves  with  a  secret  shudder, 
and  that  they  were  mingled  up  in  his  mind  by  no  unnatu¬ 
ral,  though  unjust  confusion,  with  the  causes  of  his  pre¬ 
sent  awful  and  uncertain  state.  With  the  generality  of 
the  world,  these  two  tender  friends  believed  Houseman 
the  real  and  sole  murderer,  and  fancied  his  charge  against 
Aram  was  but  the  last  expedient  of  a  villain  to  ward 
punishment  from  himself,  by  imputing  crime  to  another. 
Naturally  then,  they  frequently  sought  to  turn  the  con¬ 
versation  upon  Houseman,  and  on  the  different  circum¬ 
stances  that  had  brought  him  acquainted  with  Aram: 
but  on  this  ground  the  prisoner  seemed  morbidly  sensi¬ 
tive,  and  averse  to  detailed  discussion.  His  narration, 
however,  such  as  it  was,  threw  much  light  upon  certain 
matters  on  which  Madeline  and  Lester  were  before  anx¬ 
ious  and  inquisitive. 

‘'Houseman  is,  in  all  ways,”  said  he,  with  great  and 
bitter  vehemence,  “unredeemed,  and  beyond  the  calcula¬ 
tions  of  an  ordinary  wickedness;  we  knew  each  other 
from  our  relationship,  but  seldom  met,  and  still  more 
rarely  held  long  intercourse  together.  After  we  sepa¬ 
rated,  when  1  left  Knaresbro’,  we  did  not  meet  for  years. 
He  sought  me  at  Grassdale;  he  was  poor,  and  implored 
assistance;  I  gave  him  all  within  my  power;  he  sought 
me  again,  nay,  more  than  once  again,  and  finding  me 
justly  averse  to  yielding  to  his  extortionate  demands,  he 
then  broached  the  purpose  he  has  now  effected ;  he 
threatened — you  hear  me — you  understand  —  he  threats 


\ 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


239 


ened  me  with  this  charge  —  the  murder  of  Daniel  Clarke ; 
by  that  name  alone  I  knew  the  deceased.  The  menace, 
and  the  known  villanv  of  the  man,  agitated  me  beyond 
expression.  What  was  I?  —  a  being  who  lived  without 
the  world  —  who  knew  not  its  ways  —  who  desired  only 
rest!  The  menace  haunted  me — almost  maddened! 
Your  nephew  has  told  you,  you  say,  of  broken  words,  of 
escaping  emotions,  which  he  has  noted,  even  to  suspicion, 
in  me  ;  you  now  behold  the  cause  !  Was  it  not  sufficient? 
My  life,  nay  more,  my  fame,  my  marriage,  Madeline’s 
peace  of  mind,  all  depended  on  the  uncertain  fury  or  craft 
of  a  wretch  like  this !  This  idea  was  with  me  night  and 
day;  to  avoid  it  I  resolved  on  a  sacrifice;  you  may 
blame  me,  I  was  weak,  vet  I  thought  then  not  unwise; 
to  avoid  it,  I  say,  I  offered  to  bribe  this  man  to  leave  the 
country.  I  sold  my  pittance  to  oblige  him  to  it.  I 
bound  him  thereto  by  the  strongest  ties.  Nay,  so  disin¬ 
terestedly,  so  truly,  did  I  love  Madeline,  that  I  would  not 
wed  while  I  thought  this  danger  would  burst  upon  me. 

I  believed  that,  before  my  marriage  day,  Houseman  had 
left  the  country.  It  was  not  so :  Fate  ordered  other-  . 
wise.  It  seems  that  Houseman  came  to  Knaresbro’  to 
see  his  daughter;  that  suspicion,  by  a  sudden  train  of 
events,  fell  on  him  —  perhaps  justly;  to  screen  himself 
he  has  sacrificed  me.  The  tale  seems  plausible ;  perhaps 
the  accuser  may  triumph.  But,  Madeline,  you  now  may 
account  for  much  that  may  have  perplexed  you  before. 
Let  me  remember  —  ay  —  ay  —  I  have  dropped  mysteri¬ 
ous  words  —  have  I  not? — have  I  not?  —  owning  that 
II.  — 21  21 


240 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


danger  was  around  me  —  owning  that  a  wild  and  terrific 
secret  was  heavy  at  my  breast ;  nay,  once,  walking  with 
you  the  evening  before  —  before  the  fatal  day,  I  said  that 
we  must  prepare  to  seek  some  yet  more  secluded  spot, 
some  deeper  retirement;  for  despite  my  precautions, 
despite  the  supposed  absence  of  Houseman  from  the 
country  itself,  a  fevered  and  restless  presentiment  would 
at  some  times  intrude  itself  on  me.  All  this  is  now 
accounted  for,  is  it  not,  Madeline?  Speak,  speak!” 

“All,  love,  all!  Why  do  you  look  on  me  with  that 
searching  eye,  that  frowning  brow?” 

“Did  I?  No,  no,  I  have  no  frown  for  you;  but 
peace,  I  am  not  what  I  ought  to  be  through  this  ordeal.” 

The  above  narration  of  Aram’s  did  indeed  account  to 
Madeline  for  much  that  had  till  then  remained  unex¬ 
plained  ;  the  appearance  of  Houseman  at  Grassdale, — 
the  meeting  between  him  and  Aram  on  the  evening  she 
walked  with  the  latter,  and  questioned  him  of  his  ill- 
boding  visitor;  the  frequent  abstraction  and  muttered 
hints  of  her  lover;  and,  as  he  had  said,  his  last  declara¬ 
tion  of  the  possible  necessity  of  leaving  Grassdale.  Nor 
was  it  improbable,  though  it  was  rather  in  accordance 
with  the  unworldly  habits,  than  with  the  haughty  charac¬ 
ter  of  Aram,  that  he  should  seek,  circumstanced  as  he 
was,  to  silence  even  the  false  accuser  of  a  plausible  tale, 
that  might  well  strike  horror  and  bewilderment  into  a 
man  much  more,  to  all  seeming,  fitted  to  grapple  with 
the  hard  and*  coarse  realities  of  life,  than  the  moody  and 
secluded  scholar.  Be  that  as  it  may,  though  Lester 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


241 


deplored,  he  did  not  blame  that  circumstance,  which  after 
all  had  not  transpired,  nor  seemed  likely  to  transpire; 
and  he  attributed  the  prisoner’s  aversion  to  enter  farther 
on  the  matter  to  the  natural  dislike  of  so  proud  a  man 
to  refer  to  his  own  weakness,  and  to  dwell  upon  the  man¬ 
ner  in  which,  in  spite  of  that  weakness,  he  had  been 
duped.  This  story  Lester  retailed  to  Walter,  and  it  con¬ 
tributed  to  throw  a  damp  and  uncertainty  over  those 
mixed  and  unquiet  feelings  with  which  the  latter  waited 
for  the  coming  trial.  There  were  many  moments  when 
the  young  man  was  tempted  to  regret  that  Aram  had  not 
escaped  a  trial  which,  if  he  were  proved  guilty,  would 
for  ever  blast  the  happiness  of  his  family;  and  which 
might,  notwithstanding  such  a  verdict,  leave  on  Walter’s 
own  mind  an  impression  of  the  prisoner’s  innocence;  and 
an  uneasy  consciousness  that  he,  through  his  investiga¬ 
tions,  had  brought  him  to  that  doom. 

Walter  remained  in  Yorkshire,  seeing  little  of  his 
family, —  of  none  indeed  but  Lester;  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  Madeline  would  see  him,  and  once  only  he 
caught  the  tearful  eyes  of  Ellinor  as  she  retreated  from 
the  room  he  entered,  and  those  eyes  beamed  kindness  and 
pity,  but  something  also  of  reproach. 

Time  passed  slowly  and  witheringly  on :  a  man  of  the 
name  of  Terry  having  been  included  in  the  suspicion,  and 
indeed  committed,  it  appeared  that  the  prosecutor  could 
not  procure  witnesses  by  the  customary  time,  and  the 
trial  was  postponed  till  the  next  assizes.  As  this  man 
was,  however,  never  brought  up  to  trial,  and  appears  no 


242 


EUGENE  ARAM 


more,  we  have  said  nothing  of  him  in  our  narrative,  until 
he  thus  became  an  instrument  of  a  delay  in  the  fate  of 
Eugene  Aram.  Time  passed  on  —  winter,  spring  was 
gone,  and  the  glory  and  gloss  of  summer  were  now  lav¬ 
ished  over  the  happy  earth.  In  some  measure  the  usual 
calmness  of  his  demeanor  had  returned  to  Aram  ;  he  had 
mastered  those  moody  fits  we  have  referred  to,  which  had 
so  afflicted  his  affectionate  visitors;  and  he  now  seemed 
to  prepare  and  buoy  himself  up  against  that  awful  ordeal 
of  life  and  death  which  he  was  about  soon  to  pass.  Yet 
he  —  the  hermit  of  Nature,  who  — 

“  Each  little  herb 

That  grows  on  mountain  bleak,  or  tangled  forest, 

Had  learnt  to  name ;  ”  *  — 

he  could  not  feel,  even  through  the  bars  and  checks  of  a 
prison,  the  soft  summer  air,  “the  witchery  of  the  soft 
blue  sky ;  ”  he  could  not  see  the  leaves  bud  forth,  and 
mellow  into  their  darker  verdure ;  he  could  not  hear  the 
songs  of  the  many-voiced  birds,  or  listen  to  the  dancing 
rain,  calling  up  beauty  where  it  fell ;  or  mark  at  night, 
through  his  high  and  narrow  casement,  the  stars  aloof, 
and  the  sweet  moon  pouring  in  her  light,  like  God’s  par¬ 
don,  even  through  the  dungeon-gloom  and  the  desolate 
scenes  where  Mortality  struggles  with  Despair;  he  could 
not  catch,  obstructed  as  they  were,  these,  the  benigrcr 
influences  of  earth,  and  not  sicken  and  pant  for  his  old 
and  full  communion  with  their  ministry  and  presence. 
Sometimes  all  around  him  was  forgotten, —  the  harsh  cell, 


*  “Itemorse,”  by  S.  T.  Coleridge. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


243 


the  cheerless  solitude,  the  approaching  trial,  the  boding 
fear,  the  darkened  hope,  even  the  spectre  of  a  troubled 
and  fierce  remembrance, —  all  was  forgotten,  and  his 
spirit  was  abroad,  and  his  step  upon  the  mountain  top 
once  more. 

In  our  estimate  of  the  ills  of  life  we  never  sufficiently 
take  into  our  consideration  the  wonderful  elasticity  of 
our  moral  frame,  the  unlooked-for,  the  startling  facility 
with  which  the  human  mind  accommodates  itself  to  all 
change  of  circumstance,  making  an  object  and  even  a  joy 
from  the  hardest  and  seemingly  the  least  redeemed  con¬ 
ditions  of  fate.  The  man  who  watched  the  spider  in  his 
cell  may  have  taken,  at  least,  as  much  interest  in  the 
watch,  as  when  engaged  in  the  most  ardent  and  ambi¬ 
tious  objects  of  his  former  life.  Let  any  man  look  over 
his  past  career,  let  him  recall  not  moments,  not  hours  of 
agony,  for  to  them  Custom  lends  not  her  blessed  magic; 
but  let  him  single  out  some  lengthened  period  of  physical 
or  moral  endurance:  in  hastily  reverting  to  it,  it  may 
seem  at  first,  I  grant,  altogether  wretched  ;  a  series  of 
days  marked  with  the  black  stone  —  the  clouds  without  i 
star:  but  let  him  look  more  closely,  it  was  not  so  during 
the  time  of  suffering;  a  thousand  little  things,  in  the 
rustle  of  life  dormant  and  unheeded,  then  started  forth 
into  notice,  and  became  to  him  objects  of  interest  or  di¬ 
version  ;  the  dreary  present,  once  made  familiar,  glided 
away  from  him,  not  less  than  if  it  had  been  all  happiness; 
his  mind  dwelt  not  on  the  dull  intervals,  but  the  stepping- 
sto^e  it  had  created  and  placed  at  each;  and,  by  that 
21* 


244 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


mora]  dreaming  which  for  ever  goes  on  within  man’s 
secret  heart,  he  lived  as  little  in  the  immediate  world  be¬ 
fore  him,  as  in  the  most  sanguine  period  of  his  youth,  or 
the  most  scheming  of  his  maturity. 

So  wonderful  in  equalizing  all  states  and  all  times  in 
the  varying  tide  of  life,  are  these  two  rulers  yet  levellers 
of  mankind,  Hope  and  Custom,  that  the  very  idea  of  an 
eternal  punishment  includes  that  of  an  utter  alteration  of 
the  whole  mechanism  of  the  soul  in  its  human  state ;  and 
no  effort  of  an  imagination,  assisted  by  past  experience, 
can  conceive  a  state  of  torture  which  Custom  can  never 
blunt,  and  from  which  the  chainless  and  immaterial  spirit 
can  never  be  beguiled  into  even  a  momentary  escape. 

Among  the  very  few  persons  admitted  to  Aram’s  soli¬ 
tude  was  Lord  *****.  That  nobleman  was  staying,  on 
a  visit,  with  a  relation  of  his  in  the  neighborhood,  and  he 
seized,  with  an  excited  and  mournful  avidity,  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  thus  afforded  him  of  seeing  once  more  a  character 
that  had  so  often  forced  itself  on  his  speculation  and  sur¬ 
prise.  He  came  to  offer,  not  condolence,  but  respect ; 
services  at  such  a  moment,  no  individual  could  render: 
. —  he  gave,  however,  what  was  within  his  power — advice, 
- — and  pointed  out  to  Aram  the  best  counsel  to  engage, 
and  the  best  method  of  previous  inquiry  into  particulars 
yet  unexplored.  He  was  astonished  to  find  Aram  indif¬ 
ferent  on  these  points,  so  important.  The  prisoner,  it 
would  seem,  had  even  then  resolved  on  being  his  owm 
counsel,  and  conducting  his  own  cause;  the  event  proved 
that  he  did  not  reiy  in  vain  on  the  power  of  his  own  elo- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


245 


quence  and  sagacity,  though  he  might  on  their  result. 
As  to  the  rest,  he  spoke  with  impatience,  and  the  petu¬ 
lance  of  a  wronged  man.  “For  the  idle  rumors  of  the 
world,  I  do  not  care,”  said  he;  “let  them  condemn  or 
acquit  me  as  they  will:  for  my  life,  I  might  be  willing, 
indeed,  that  it  were  spared, —  I  trust  it  may  be;  if  not, 
I  can  stand  face  to  face  with  Death.  I  have  now  looked 
on  him  within  these  walls  long  enough  to  have  grown 
familiar  with  his  terrors.  But  enough  of  me.  Tell  me, 
my  lord,  something  of  the  world  without:  I  have  grown 
eager  about  it  at  last.  I  have  been  so  condemned  to 
feed  upon  myself,  that  I  have  become  surfeited  with  the 
diet;  ”  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  earl  drew 
Aram  back  to  speak  of  himself :  he  did  so,  even  when 
compelled  to  it,  with  so  much  qualification  and  reserve* 
mixed  with  some  evident  anger  at  the  thought  of  being 
sifted  and  examined,  that  his  visitor  was  forced  finally 
to  drop  the  subject;  and  not  liking,  indeed  not  able,  to 
converse  on  more  indifferent  themes,  the  last  interview  he 
ever  had  with  Aram  terminated  much  more  abruptly  than 
he  had  meant  it.  His  opinion  of  the  prisoner  was  not, 
however,  shaken  in  the  least.  I  have  seen  a  letter  of  his 
to  a  celebrated  personage  of  the  day,  in  which,  mention¬ 
ing  this  interview,  he  concludes  with  saying:  “In  short, 
there  is  so  much  real  dignity  about  the  man,  that  adverse 
circumstenees  increase  it  tenfold.  Of  his  innocence  I 
have  not  the  remotest  doubt;  but  if  he  persists  in  being 
his  own  counsel,  I  tremble  for  the  result:  you  know,  in 
such  cases,  how  much  more  valuable  is  practice  than 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


24G 

genius.  But  the  judge,  you  will  say,  is,  in  criminal  causes, 
the  prisoner’s  counsel ;  God  grant  he  may  here  prove  a 
successful  one  1  I  repeat,  were  Aram  condemned  by  five 
hundred  juries,  I  could  not  believe  him  guilty.  No,  the 
very  essence  of  all  human  probability  is  against  it.” 

The  earl  afterwards  saw  and  conversed  with  Walter. 
He  wras  much  struck  with  the  conduct  of  the  young  Les¬ 
ter,  and  much  impressed  with  compassion  for  a  situation 
so  harassing  and  unhappy. 

“Whatever  be  the  result  of  the  trial,”  said  Walter,  “I 
shall  leave  the  country  the  moment  it  is  finally  over.  If 
the  prisoner  be  condemned,  there  is  no  hearth  for  me  in 
my  uncle’s  home;  if  not,  my  suspicions  may  still  remain, 
and  the  sight  of  each  other  be  an  equal  bane  to  the  ac¬ 
cused  and  to  myself.  A  voluntary  exile,  and  a  life  that 
may  lead  to  forgetfulness,  are  all  that  I  covet.  I  now 
find  in  my  own  person,”  he  added,  with  a  faint  smile, 
“how  deeply  Shakspeare  had  read  the  mysteries  of  men’s 
conduct.  Hamlet,  we  are  told,  was  naturally  full  of  fire 
and  action.  One  dark  discovery  quells  his  spirit,  un¬ 
strings  his  heart,  and  stales  to  him  for  ever  the  uses  of 
the  world.  1  now  comprehend  the  change.  It  is  bodied 
forth  ever,  in  the  humblest  individual,  wrho  is  met  by  a 
similar  late  —  even  in  myself.” 

“Ay,”  said  the  earl,  “  I  do  indeed  remember  you  a  wild, 
impetuous,  headstrong  youth.  I  scarcely  recognize  your 
very  appearance.  The  elastic  spring  has  left  your  step 
—  there  seems  a  fixed  furrow  in  your  brow.  These 
clouds  of  life  are  indeed  no  summer  vapor,  darkening  one 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


241 


moment  and  gone  the  next.  But,  my  young  friend,  lei 
us  hope  the  best.  I  firmly  believe  in  Aram’s  innocence 
■ — firmly!  —  more  rootedly  than  I  can  express.  The 
real  criminal  will  appear  on  the  trial.  All  bitterness 
between  you  and  Aram  must  cease  at  his  acquittal;  you 
will  be  anxious  to  repair  to  him  the  injustice  of  a  natural 
suspicion :  and  he  seems  not  one  who  would  long  retain 
malice.  All  will  be  well,  believe  me.” 

“God  grant  it!”  said  Walter,  sighing  deeply. 

“But  at  the  worst,”  continued  the  earl,  pressing  bis 
hand  in  parting,  “if  you  should  persist  in  your  resolution 
to  leave  the  country,  write  to  me,  and  I  can  furnish  you 
with  an  honorable  and  stirring  occasion  for  doing  so. 
Farewell !  ” 

While  time  was  thus  advancing  towards  the  fatal 
day,  it  was  graving  deep  ravages  within  the  pure  breast 
of  Madeline  Lester.  She  had  borne  up,  as  we  have  seen, 
for  some  time,  against  the  sudden  blow  that  had  shivered 
her  young  hopes,  and  separated  her  by  so  awful  a  chasm 
from  the  side  of  Aram ;  but  as  week  after  week,  month 
after  month  rolled  on,  and  he  still  lay  in  prison,  and  the 
horrible  suspense  of  ignominy  and  death  still  hung  over 
her,  then  gradually  her  courage  began  to  fail,  and  her 
heart  to  sink.  Of  all  the  conditions  to  which  the  heart 
i&  subject,  suspense  is  the  one  that  most  gnaws,  and  can¬ 
kers  into,  the  frame.  One  little  month  of  that  suspense, 
when  it  involves  death,  we  are  told,  in  a  very  remarkable 
work  lately  published  by  an  eye-witness,  *  is  sufficient  to 


*  See  Mr.  Wakefield’s  work  On  the  Punishment  of  Death. 


248 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


plough  fixed  lines  and  furrows  in  the  face  of  a  convict 
of  five-and-twenty —  sufficient  to  dash  the  brown  hair 
with  grey,  and  to  bleach  the  grey  to  white.  And  this 
suspense  —  suspense  of  this  nature  —  for  more  than  eight 
whole  months,  had  Madeline  to  endure! 

About  the  end  of  the  second  month,  the  effect  upon 
her  health  grew  visible.  Her  color,  naturally  delicate  as 
the  hues  of  the  pink  shell  or  the  youngest  rose,  faded 
into  one  marble  whiteness,  which  again,  as  time  proceed¬ 
ed,  flushed  into  that  red  and  preternatural  hectic,  which, 
once  settled,  rarely  yields  its  place  but  to  the  colors  of 
the  grave.  Her  form  shrank  from  its  noble  and  rounded 
proportions.  Deep  hollows  traced  themselves  beneath 
eyes  which  yet  grew  even  more  lovely  as  they  grew  less 
serenely  bright.  The  blessed  sleep  sunk  not  upon  her 
brain  with  its  wonted  and  healing  dews.  Perturbed 
dreams,  that  towards  dawn  succeeded  the  long  and  weary 
vigil  of  the  night,  shook  her  frame  even  more  than  the 
anguish  of  the  day.  In  these  dreams  one  frightful  vision 
—  a  crowd  —  a  scaffold  —  and  the  pale  majestic  face  of 
ner  lover,  darkened  by  unutterable  pangs  of  pride  and 
sorrow,  were  for  ever  present  before  her.  Till  now  she 
and  Ellinor  had  always  shared  the  same  bed :  this  Made¬ 
line  would  no  longer  suffer.  In  vain  Ellinor  wept  and 
pleaded.  “Ho,”  said  Madeline,  with  a  hollow  voice: 
“at  night  I  see  him.  My  soul  is  alone  with  his;  but  — 
but,”  and  she  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears  —  “the  most 
dreadful  thought  is  this, —  I  cannot  master  my  dreams. 
A  nd  sometimes  I  start  and  wake,  and  find  that  in  sleep 


E  U  GENE  A  RAM. 


249 


I  have  believed  him  guilty.  Nav,  0  God  !  that  his  lips 
have  proclaimed  the  guilt!  And  shall  any  living  being 
—  shall  any  but  God,  who  reads  not  words  but  hearts, 
hear  this  hideous  falsehood  —  this  ghastly  mockery  of 
the  lying  sleep?  No,  I  must  be  alone!  the  very  stars 
should  not  hear  what  is  forced  from  me  in  the  madness 
of  my  dreams.  ” 

But  not  in  vain,  or  not  excluded  from  her,  was  that 
elastic  and  consoling  spirit  of  which  I  have  before  spok¬ 
en.  As  Aram  recovered  the  tenor  of  his  self-possession, 
a  more  quiet  and  peaceful  calm  diffused  itself  over  the 
mind  of  Madeline.  Her  high  and  starry  nature  could 
comprehend  those  sublime  inspirations  of  comfort,  which 
lift  us  from  the  lowest  abyss  of  this  world,  to  the  con¬ 
templation  of  all  that  the  yearning  visions  of  mankind 
have  painted  in  another.  She  would  sit,  rapt  and  ab¬ 
sorbed  for  hours  together,  till  these  contemplations  as¬ 
sumed  the  color  of  a  gentle  and  soft  insanity..  *  “Come, 
dearest  Madeline, ”  Ellinor  would  say, —  “come,  you  have 
thought  enough;  my  poor  father  asks  to  see  you.” 

“Hush!”  Madeline  answered.  “Hush,  I  have  been 
walking  with  Eugene  in  heaven  :  and  oh  !  there  are  green 
woods,  and  lulling  waters  above,  as  there  are  on  earth, 
and  we  see  the  stars  quite  near,  and  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  happy  their  smile  makes  those  who  look  upon  them. 
And  Eugene  never  starts  there,  nor  frowns,  nor  walks 
aside,  nor  looks  on  me  with  an  estranged  and  chilling 
look;  but  his  face  is  as  calm  and  as  bright  as  the  face 
of  an  angel; — and  his  voice!  —  it  thrills  amidst  ail  the 


E  U  G  E  N  E  AIIAM. 


25</ 

music  which  plays  there  night  and  day  —  softer  than  their 
softest  note.  And  we  are  married,  Ellinor,  at  last.  We 
were  married  in  heaven,  and  all  the  angels  came  to  the 
marriage  !  I  am  now  so  happy  that  we  were  not  wed 
before  !  What  1  are  you  weeping,  Ellinor  ?  Ah,  we  never 
weep  in  heaven  !  but  we  will  all  go  there  again  —  all  of 
us,  hand  in  hand  !  ” 

These  affecting  hallucinations  terrified  them,  lest  they 
should  settle  into  a  confirmed  loss  of  reason  ;  but  perhaps 
without  cause.  They  never  lasted  long,  and  never  oc¬ 
curred  but  after  moods  of  abstraction  of  unusual  duration. 
To  her  they  probably  supplied  what  sleep  does  to  others 
—  a  relaxation  and  refreshment  —  an  escape  from  the 
consciousness  of  life.  And,  indeed,  it  might  always  be 
noted,  that  after  such  harmless  aberrations  of  the  mind, 
Madeline  seemed  more  collected  and  patient  in  thought, 
and,  for  the  moment,  even  stronger  in  frame  than  before. 
Yet  the  body  evidently  pined  and  languished,  and  each 
week  made  palpable  decay  in  her  vital  powers. 

Every  time  Aram  saw  her,  he  was  startled  at  the  alter¬ 
ation  ;  and  kissing  her  cheek,  her  lips,  her  temples,  in  an 
agony  of  grief,  wondered  that  to  him  alone  it  was  forbid¬ 
den  to  weep.  Yet  after  all,  when  she  was  gone,  and  he 
again  alone,  he  could  not  but  think  death  likely  to  prove 
to  her  the  most  happy  of  earthly  boons.  He  was  not 
sanguine  of  acquittal ;  and  even  in  acquittal,  a  voice  at  his 
heart  suggested  insuperable  barriers  to  their  union,  which 
had  not  existed  when  it  was  first  anticipated. 


FUQENE  ARAM. 


251 


“Yes,  let  her  die,”  he  would  say,  “let  her  die;  she 
at  least  is  certain  of  heaven  !  ”  But  the  human  infirmity 
clung  around  him,  and  notwithstanding  this  seeming 
resolution  in  her  absence,  he  did  not  mourn  the  less,  he 
was  not  stung  the  less,  when  he  saw  her  again,  and  beheld 
a  new  character  from  the  hand  of  death  graven  upon  her 
form.  No  ;  we  may  triumph  over  all  weakness,  but  that 
of  the  affections  !  Perhaps  in  this  dreary  and  haggard 
interval  of  time,  these  two  persons  loved  each  other  more 
purely,  more  strongly,  more  enthusiastically,  than  they 
had  ever  done  at  any  former  period  of  their  eventful  his¬ 
tory.  Over  the  hardest  stone,  as  over  the  softest  turf, 
the  green  moss  will  force  its  verdure  and  sustain  its  life  ! 


II—  22 


252 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  EVENING  BEFORE  THE  TRIAL. - THE  COUSINS. —  THE 

CHANGE  IN  MADELINE.  —  THE  FAMILY  OF  GRASSDALE 
MEET  ONCE  MORE  BENEATH  ONE  ROOF. 


“Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty  shadows, 

For  Sorrow’s  eye,  glazed  with  blinding  tears, 

Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  objects. 
****** 

“  Hope  is  a  flatterer, 

A  parasite,  a  keeper  back  of  death  ; 

Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  death 
Which  false  Hope  lingers  in  extremity  ?  ” 

Richard  11. 

It  was  the  evening  before  the  trial.  Lester  and  his 
daughters  lodged  at  a  retired  and  solitary  house  in  the 
suburbs  of  the  town  of  York  ;  and  thither,  from  the  vil¬ 
lage  some  miles  distant,  in  which  he  had  chosen  his  own 
retreat,  Walter  now  proceeded  across  fields  laden  with 
the  ripening  corn.  The  last  and  the  richest  month  of 
summer  had  commenced  ;  but  the  harvest  was  not  yet 
begun,  and  deep  and  golden  showed  the  vegetation  of 
life  bedded  among  the  dark  verdure  of  the  hedge-rows, 
and  the  “  merrie  woods  1  ”  The  evening  was  serene  and 
lulled  ;  at  a  distance  arose  the  spires  and  chimneys  of  the 
town,  but  no  sound  from  the  busy  hum  of  men  reached 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


253 


the  ear  Nothing  perhaps  gives  a  more  entire  idea  of 
stillness  than  the  sight  of  those  abodes  where  “  noise 
dwelleth,”  but  where  you  cannot  now  hear  even  its 
murmurs.  The  stillness  of  a  city  is  far  more  impressive 

r 

than  that  of  Nature  ;  for  the  mind  instantly  compares 
the  present  silence  with  the  wonted  uproar.  The  harvest- 
moon  rose  slowly  from  a  copse  of  gloomy  firs,  and  infused 
its  own  unspeakable  magic  into  the  hush  and  transparency 
of  the  night.  As  Walter  walked  slowly  on,  the  sound  of 
voices  from  some  rustic  party  going  homeward  broke 
jocundly  on  the  silence,  and  when  he  paused  for  a  moment 
at  tire  stile,  from  which  he  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  Les¬ 
ter’s  house,  he  saw,  winding  along  the  green  hedge-row, 
some  villag  pair,  the  “  lover  and  the  maid,”  who  eould  meet 
only  at  such  hours,  and  to  whom  such  hours  were  there¬ 
fore  especially  dear.  It  was  altogether  a  scene  of  pure  and 
true  pastoral  character,  and  there  was  all  around  a  sem¬ 
blance  of  tranquillity,  of  happiness,  which  suits  with  the 
poetical  and  the  scriptural  paintings  of  a  pastoral  life  ; 
and  which  perhaps,  in  a  new  and  fertile  country,  mav 
still  find  a  realization.  From  this  scene,  from  these 
thoughts,  the  young  loiterer  turned  with  a  sigh  towards 
the  solitary  house  in  which  this  night  could  awaken  none 
but  the  most  anxious  feelings,  and  that  moon  could  beam 
only  on  the  most  troubled  hearts. 

“  Terra  salutiferas  herbas,  eademque  nocentes 
Nutrit ;  et  urticae  proxima  saepe  rosa  est.”  * 


*  The  same  earth  produces  health-hearing  and  deadly  plants  ;  — 
ofttimes  the  rose  grows  nearest  to  the  nettle. 


254 


E  U  G  E  N  E  A  R  A  M  . 


lie  now  walked  more  quickly  on,  as  if  stung  by  hia 
reflections,  ana  avoiding  the  path  which  led  to  the  front 
of  the  house,  gained  a  little  garden  at  the  rear  ;  and 
opening  a  gate  that  admitted  to  a  narrow  and  shaded 
walk,  over  which  the  linden  and  nut  trees  made  a  sort  of 
continuous  and  natural  arbor,  the  moon,  piercing  at  bro¬ 
ken  intervals  through  the  boughs,  rested  on  the  form  of 
Ellinor  Lester. 

“  This  is  most  kind,  most  like  my  own  sweet  cousin,” 
said  Walter  approaching  ;  “  I  cannot  say  how  fearful  I 
wras,  lest  you  should  not  meet  me  after  all.” 

“Indeed,  Walter,”  replied  Ellinor,  “I  found  some 
difficulty  in  concealing  your  note,  which  was  given  me  in 
Madeline’s  presence  ;  and  still  more  in  stealing  out  unob¬ 
served  by  her,  for  she  has  been,  as  you  may  well  conceive, 
unusually  restless  the  whole  of  this  agonizing  day.  Ah, 
Walter,  would  to  God  you  had  never  left  us!” 

“Rather  say,”  rejoined  Walter,  “Would  that  this 
unhappy  man,  against  whom  my  father’s  ashes  still  seem 
to  me  to  cry  aloud,  had  never  come  into  our  peaceful  and 
happy  valley  !  Then  you  would  not  have  reproached  me, 
that  I  have  sought  justice  ou  a  suspected  murderer  ;  nor 
I  have  longed  for  death  rather  than,  in  that  justice,  have 
inflicted  such  distress  and  horror  on  those  whom  I  love 
the  best !  ” 

“What,  Walter,  you  yet  believe  —  you  are  yet  con¬ 
vinced  that  Eugene  Aram  is  the  real  criminal?” 

“  Let  to-morrow  show,”  answered  Walter.  “  But  poor, 
poor  Madeline  !  How  does  she  bear  up  against  tins 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


255 


long  suspense?  You  know  I  have  not  seen  her  for 
months.” 

“Oh  !  Walter,”  said  Ellinor,  weeping  bitterly;  “you 
would  not  know  her,  so  dreadfully  is  she  altered.  I  fear” 
(here  sobs  choked  the  sister’s  voice,  so  as  to  leave  it 
scarcely  audible)  —  “  that  she  is  not  many  weeks  for  this 
Aorld  !  ” 

“Just  Heaven  !  is  it  so  ?  ”  exclaimed  Walter,  so  shocked, 
that  the  tree  against  which  he  leant  scarcely  preserved 
him  from  falling  to  the  ground,  as  the  thousand  remem¬ 
brances  of  his  first  love  rushed  upon  his  heart.  “And 
Providence  singled  me  out  of  the  whole  world,  to  strike 
this  blow  !  ” 

Despite  her  own  grief,  Ellinor  was  touched  and  smitten 
by  the  violent  emotion  of  her  cousin  ;  and  the  two  young 
persons,  lovers,  though  love  was  at  this  time  the  least 
perceptible  feeling  of  their  breast,  mingled  their  emotions, 
and  sought,  at  least,  to  console  and  cheer  each  other. 

“It  may  yet  be  better  than  our  fears,”  said  Ellinor, 
soothingly.  “  Eugene  may  be  found  guiltless,  and  in 
that  joy  we  may  forget  all  the  past.” 

Walter  shook  his  head  despondingly.  “Your  heart, 
Ellinor,  was  always  kind  to  me.  You  now  are  the  only 
one  to  do  me  justice,  and  to  see  how  utterly  reproachless 
I  am  for  all  the  misery  the  crime  of  another  occasions. 
• — But  my  uncle  —  him,  too,  I  have  not  seen  for  some 
time  :  is  he  well  ?  ” 

“Yes,  WTalter,  yes,”  said  Ellinor,  kindly  disguising  the 
real  truth,  how  much  her  father’s  vigorous  frame  had 
22*  2k 


256 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


been  bowed  by  his  state  of  mind.  “And  I,  you  see,’' 
added  she,  with  a  faint  attempt  to  smile, —  “  I  am,  in 
health  at  least,  the  same  as  when,  this  time  last  year,  we 
were  all  happy  and  full  of  hope.” 

Walter  looked  hard  upon  that  face,  once  so  vivid  with 
the  rich  color  and  the  buoyant  and  arch  expression  of 
liveliness  and  youth,  now  pale,  subdued  and  worn  by  the 
traces  of  constant  tears  ;  and,  pressing  his  hand  convul¬ 
sively  on  his  heart,  turned  away. 

“  But  can  I  not  see  my  uncle  ?  ”  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

“  He  is  not  at  home  :  he  has  gone  to  the  Castle,” 
replied  Ellinor. 

“  I  shall  meet  him,  then,  on  his  way  home,”  returned 
Walter.  “But,  Ellinor,  there  is  surely  no  truth  in  a 
vague  rumor  which  I  heard  in  the  town,  that  Madeline 
intends  to  be  present  at  the  trial  to-morrow  ?  ” 

“  Indeed,  I  fear  that  she  will.  Both  my  father  and 
myself  have  sought  strongly  and  urgently  to  dissuade 
her,  but  in  vain.  You  know,  with  all  that  gentleness, 
how  resolute  she  is  when  her  mind  is  once  determined  on 
any  object.” 

“  But  if  the  verdict  should  be  against  the  prisoner,  in 
her  state  of  health  consider  how  terrible  would  be  the 
shock  !  Nay,  even  the  joy  of  acquittal  might  be  equally 
dangerous  ;  for  heaven’s  sake,  do  not  suffer  her.” 

“  What  is  to  be  done,  Walter  ?  ”  said  Ellinor,  wringing 
her  hands.  “We  cannot  help  it.  My  father  has,  at 
last,  forbid  me  to  contradict  the  wish.  Contradiction, 
the  physician  himself  says,  might  be  as  fatal  as  concession 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


257 


can  be.  And  my  father  adds,  in  a  stern,  calm  voice, 
which  it  breaks  my  heart  to  hear,  ‘  Be  still,  Ellin  or,  If 
the  innocent  is  to  perish,  the  sooner  she  joins  him  the 
better :  I  would  then  have  all  my  ties  on  the  other  side 
the  grave  I  ” 

“  How  that  strange  man  seems  to  have  fascinated  you 
all!”  said  Walter,  bitterly. 

Ellinor  did  not  answer  :  over  her  the  fascination  had 
never  been  to  an  equal  degree  with  the  rest  of  her  family. 

“  Ellinor  !”  said  Walter,  who  had  been  walking  for 
the  last  few  moments  to  and  fro  with  the  rapid  strides  of 
a  man  debating  with  himself,  and  who  now  suddenly 
paused,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  cousin’s  arm  — “  Ellinor  ! 
I  am  resolved.  I  must,  for  the  quiet  of  my  soul,  I  must 
see  Madeline  this  night,  and  win  her  forgiveness  for  all 
I  have  been  made  the  unintentional  agent  of  Providence 
to  bring  upon  her.  The  peace  of  my  future  life  may 
depend  on  this  single  interview.  What  if  Aram  be  con¬ 
demned  ?  —  and  —  in  short,  it  is  no  matter  —  I  must  see 
her.” 

“  She  would  not  hear  of  it,  I  fear,”  said  Ellinor,  in 
alarm.  “  Indeed,  you  cannot ;  you  do  not  know  her  state 
of  mind.” 

“ Ellinor  !”  said  Walter  doggedly,  “I  am  resolved  ’’ 
And  so  saying,  he  moved  towards  the  house. 

“Well,  then,”  said  Ellinor,  whose  nerves  had  been 
greatly  shattered  by  the  scenes  and  sorrow  of  the  last 
several  months  ;  “  if  it  must  be  so,  wait  at  least  till  I  have 
gone  in,  and  consulted  or  prepared  her.” 


258 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“As  you  will,  my  gentlest,  kindest  cousin  ;  I  know 
your  prudence  and  affection.  I  leave  you  to  obtain  me 
this  interview ;  you  can,  and  will,  I  am  convinced.” 

“  Do  not  be  sanguine,  Walter.  I  can  only  promise  to 
use  my  best  endeavors,”  answered  Ellinor,  blushing  as 
he  kissed  her  hand ;  and,  hurrying  up  the  walk,  she 
disappeared  within  the  house. 

Walter  walked  for  some  moments  about  the  alley  in 
which  Ellinor  had  left  him  ;  but,  growing  impatient,  he 
at  length  wound  through  the  overhanging  trees,  and  the 
house  stood  immediately  before  him, —  the  moon-light 
shining  full  on  the  window-panes,  and  sleeping  in  quiet 
shadow  over  the  green  turf  in  front.  He  approached  yet 
nearer,  and  through  one  of  the  windows,  by  a  single 
light  in  the  room,  he  saw  Ellinor  leaning  over  a  couch, 
on  which  a  form  reclined,  that  his  heart,  rather  than  his 
sight,  told  him  was  his  once-adored  Madeline.  He 
stopped,  and  his  breath  heaved  thick  ;  he  thought  of  their 
common  home  at  Grassdale,  of  the  old  manor-house,  of 
the  little  parlor,  with  the  woodbine  at  its  casement,  of 
the  group  within,  once  so  happy  and  light-hearted,  of 
which  he  had  formerly  made  the  one  most  buoyant,  and 
not  least  loved.  And  now  this  strange,  this  desolate 
house,  himself  estranged  from  all  once  regarding  him  (and 
those  broken-hearted),  this  night  ushering  what  a  morrow  ! 
He  groaned  almost  aloud,  and  retreated  once  more  into 
the  shadow  of  the  trees.  In  a  few  minutes  the  door  at 
the  rignt  of  the  building  opened,  and  Ellinor  came  forth 
with  a  quick  step. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


253 


“Come  in,  dear  Walter,”  said  she;  “Madeline  lias 
consented  to  see  you  :  nay,  when  I  told  her  you  were 
here,  ar.d  desired  an  interview,  she  paused  but  for  one 
instant,  and  then  begged  me  to  admit  you.” 

“  God  bless  her  !  ”  said  poor  Walter,  drawing  his  hand 
across  his  eyes,  and  following  Ellinor  to  the  door. 

“You  will  find  her  greatly  changed  !”  whispered  Elli¬ 
nor,  as  they  gained  the  outer  hall ;  “  be  prepared  !  ” 

Walter  did  not  reply,  save  by  an  expressive  gesture  ; 
and  Ellinor  led  him  into  a  room,  which  communicated,  by 
one  of  those  glass  doors  often  to  be  seen  in  the  old- 
fashioned  houses  of  country  towns,  with  the  one  in  which 
he  had  previously  seen  Madeline.  With  a  noiseless  step, 
and  almost  holding  his  breath,  he  followed  his  fair  guide 
through  this  apartment,  and  he  now  stood  by  the  couch 
on  which  Madeline  still  reclined.  She  held  out  her  hand 
to  him  —  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  without  daring  to  look 
her  in  the  face  ;  and  after  a  moment’s  pause,  she  said  — 

“  So,  you  wished  to  see  me,  Walter  !  It  is  an  anxious 
night  this  for  all  of  us  !  ” 

“  For  all !  ”  repeated  Walter,  emphatically  ;  “  and  foi 
me  not  the  least !  ” 

“We  have  known  some  sad  days  since  we  last  met  I” 
renewed  Madeline :  and  there  was  another  and  an 
embarrassed  pause. 

“  Madeline  —  dearest  Madeline  !  ”  said  Walter,  and  at 
length  dropping  on  his  knee  ;  “  you,  whom  while  I  was 
yet  a  boy,  I  so  fondly,  passionately  loved; — you  who 
yet  are  —  •  who,  while  I  live,  ever  will  be,  so  inexpressibly 


260 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


dear  to  me  —  say  but  one  word  to  me  in  this  uncertain 
and  dreadful  epoch  of  our  fate  —  say  but  one  word  to 
me  —  say  you  feel  you  are  conscious  that  throughout 
these  terrible  events  I  have  not  been  to  blame  —  I  have 
not  willingly  brought  this  affliction  upon  our  house  — 
least  of  all  upon,  that  heart  which  my  own  would  have 
forfeited  its  best  blood  to  preserve  from  the  slightest 
evil ;  — or,  if  you  will  not  do  me  this  justice,  say  at  least 
that  you  forgive  me  !  ” 

“I  forgive  you,  Walter  1  —  I  do  you  justice,  my  cou¬ 
sin  !  ”  replied  Madeline,  with  energy  ;  and  raising  herself 
on  her  arm.  “  It  is  long  since  I  have  felt  how  unreason¬ 
able  it  was  to  throw  any  blame  upon  you  —  the  mere  and 
passive  instrument  of  fate.  If  I  have  forborne  to  see 
you,  it  was  not  from  an  angry  feeling,  but  from  a  reluc¬ 
tant  weakness.  God  bless  and  preserve  you,  my  dear 
cousin  !  I  know  that  your  own  heart  has  bled  as  pro¬ 
fusely  as  ours ;  and  it  was  this  day  that  I  told  my  father, 
if  we  never  met  again,  to  express  to  you  some  kind 
message  as  a  last  memorial  from  me.  Don’t  weep,  Wal¬ 
ter  !  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  see  men  weep  !  It  is  only 
once  that  I  have  seen  him  weep, —  that  was  long,  long 
ago  !  He  has  no  tears  in  the  hour  of  dread  and  danger. 
But  no  matter  :  this  is  a  bad  world,  Walter,  and  I  am 
tired  of  it.  Are  not  you  ?  Why  do  you  look  so  at  me, 
Ellinor  ?  I  am  not  mad  !  Has  she  told  you  that  I  am, 
Walter?  Don’t  believe  her  !  Look  at  me  !  I  am  calm 

and  collected!  Yet  to-morrow  is - 0  God!  0  God! 

—  if—  if! - ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


261 

Madeline  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  became 
suddenly  silent,  though  only  for  a  short  time  ;  when  she 
again  lifted  up  her  eyes,  they  encountered  those  of  Wal¬ 
ter  ;  as  through  those  blinding  and  agonized  tears,  which 
are  wrung  from  the  grief  of  manhood,  he  gazed  upon 
that  face  on  which  nothing  of  herself,  save  the  divine  and 
unearthly  expression  which  had  always  characterized  her 
loveliness,  was  left. 

“Yes,  Walter,  I  am  wearing  fast  away  —  fast  beyond 
the  power  of  chance  I  Thank  God,  who  tempers  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  if  the  worst  happen,  we  cannot 
be  divided  long.  Ere  another  Sabbath  has  passed,  I 
may  be  with  him  in  Paradise.  What  cause  shall  we  then 
have  for  regret  ?  ” 

Ellinor  flung  herself  on  her  sister’s  neck  sobbing  vio¬ 
lently. —  “  Yes,  we  shall  regret  you  are  not  with  us,  Elli¬ 
nor  ;  but  you  will  also  soon  grow  tired  of  the  world  ;  it 
is  a  sad  place  —  it  is  a  wicked  place  —  it  is  full  of  snares 
and  pit-falls.  In  our  walk  to-day  lies  our  destruction  for 
to-morrow  !  You  will  find  this  soon,  Ellinor  !  And  you, 
and  my  father,  and  Walter,  too,  shall  join  us  !  Hark  ! 
the  clock  strikes  !  By  this  time  to-morrow  night,  what 
triumph!  —  or  to  me  at  least  (sinking  her  voice  into  a 
whisper,  that  thrilled  through  the  very  bones  of  her 
listeners),  what  peace  I  ” 

Happily  for  all  parties,  this  distressing  scene  was  here 
interrupted.  Lester  entered  the  room  with  the  heavy 
step  into  which  his  once  elastic  and  cheerful  tread  had 
subsided. 


262 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Ila,  Walter!”  said  he,  irresolutely  glancing  over 
the  group  ;  but  Madeline  had  already  sprung  from  her 
seat. 

“You  have  seen  him!  —  you  have  seen  him!  And 
how  does  he  —  how  does  he  look  ?  But  that  I  know  ;  I 
know  his  brave  heart  does  not  sink.  And  what  message 
does  he  send  to  me  ?  And  —  and  —  tell  me  all,  my  father ; 
quick,  quick  !  ” 

“  Dear,  miserable  child!  —  and  miserable  old  man!” 
muttered  Lester,  folding  her  in  his  arms ;  “but  we  ought 
to  take  courage  and  comfort  from  him,  Madeline.  A 
hero,  on  the  eve  of  battle,  could  not  be  more  firm  —  even 
more  cheerful.  He  smiled  often  —  his  old  smile  ;  and  he 
only  left  tears  and  anxiety  to  us.  But  of  you,  Madeline, 
we  spoke  mostly :  he  would  scarcely  let  me  say  a  word 
on  any  thing  else.  Oh,  what  a  kind  heart! — what  a 
noble  spirit !  And  perhaps  a  chance  to-morrow  may 
quench  both.  But,  God  !  be  just,  and  let  the  avenging 
lightning  fall  on  the  real  criminal,  and  not  blast  the  inno¬ 
cent  man  !  ” 

“Amen!”  said  Madeline,  deeply. 

“Amen!”  repeated  Walter,  laying  his  hand  on  his 
heart. 

“Let  us  pray!”  exclaimed  Lester,  animated  by  a 
sudden  impulse,  and  falling  on  his  knees.  The  whole 
group  followed  his  example  ;  and  Lester,  in  a  trembling 
and  impassioned  voice,  poured  forth  an  extempore  prayer, 
that  justice  might  fall  only  where  it  was  due.  Never 
did  that  majestic  and  pausing  moon,  which  filled  the  lowiy 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


263 


room  as  with  the  presence  of  a  spirit.,  witness  a  more 
impressive  adjuration,  or  an  audience  more  absorbed  and 
rapt.  Full  streamed  its  holy  rays  upon  the  now  snowy 
locks  and  upward  countenance  of  Lester,  making  his 
venerable  person  more  striking  from  the  contrast  it  afforded 
to  the  dark  and  sun-burnt  cheek  —  the  energetic  features, 
and  chivalric  and  earnest  head  of  the  young  man  beside 
him.  Just  in  the  shadow,  the  raven  locks  of  Ellinor  were 
bowed  over  her  clasped  hands, —  nothing  of  her  face 
visible ;  the  graceful  neck  and  heaving  breast  alone  dis¬ 
tinguished  from  the  shadow  ;  —  and,  hushed  in  a  death¬ 
like  and  solemn  repose,  the  parted  lips  moving  inaudibly  ; 
the  eye  fixed  on  vacancy ;  the  wan,  transparent  hands, 
crossed  upon  her  bosom  ;  the  light  shone  with  a  more 
softened  and  tender  ray,  upon  the  faded  but  all-angelic 
form  and  countenance  of  her ,  for  whom  Heaven  was 
already  preparing  its  eternal  recompense  for  the  ills  of 
Earth  1 


II— 23 


264 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  TRIAL. 


“Equal  to  either  fortune.” — Speech  of  Eugene  Aram. 

A'  thought  comes  over  us,  sometimes,  in  our  career 
of  pleasure,  or  the  troubled  exultation  of  our  ambitious 
pursuits  :  a  thought  comes  over  us,  like  a  cloud  ;  —  that 
around  us  and  about  us  Death  —  Shame — Crime  — 
Despair,  are  busy  at  their  work.  I  have  read  somewhere 
of  an  enchanted  land,  where  the  inmates  walked  along 
voluptuous  gardens,  and  built  palaces,  and  heard  music, 
and  made  merry  :  while  around,  and  within,  the  land, 
were  deep  caverns,  where  the  gnomes'  and  the  fiends 
dwelt :  and  ever  and  anon  their  groans  and  laughter,  and 
the  sounds  of  their  unutterable  toils,  or  ghastly  revels, 
travelled  to  the  upper  air,  mixing  in  an  awful  strangeness 
with  the  summer  festivity  and  buoyant  occupation  of 
those  above.  And  this  is  the  picture  of  human  life  I 
These  reflections  of  the  maddening  disparities  of  the 
world  are  dark,  but  salutary :  — 

“  They  wrapt  our  thoughts  at  banquets  in  the  shroud ;  ”  * 
i —  but  we  are  seldom  sadder  without  being  also  wiser  men  ! 


I 


*  Young. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


265 


The  third  of  August,  1759,  rose  bright,  calm,  ana 
clear ;  it  was  the  morning  of  the  trial ;  and  when  Ellinor 
stole  into  her  sister’s  room,  she  found  Madeline  sitting 
before  the  glass,  and  braiding  her  rich  locks  with  an 
evident  attention  and  care. 

“  I  wish,”  said  she,  “  that  you  had  pleased  me  by  dress¬ 
ing  as  for  a  holiday.  See,  I  am  going  to  wear  the  dress 
I  was  to  have  been  married  in.” 

Ellinor  shuddered  ;  for  what  is  more  appalling  than  to 
find  the  signs  of  gaiety  accompanying  the  reality  of 
anguish  ! 

“Yes,”  continued  Madeline,  with  a  smile  of  inex¬ 
pressible  sweetness,  “  a  little  reflection  will  convince  you 
that  this  ought  not  to  be  one  of  mourning.  It  was  the 
suspense  that  has  so  worn  out  our  hearts.  If  he  is 
acquitted,  as  we  all  believe  and  trust,  think  how  appro¬ 
priate  will  be  the  outward  seeming  of  our  joy  !  If  not, 
why  I  shall  go  before  him  to  our  marriage  home,  and  in 
marriage  garments.  Ay,”  she  added,  after  a  moment’s 
pause,  and  with  a  much  more  grave,  settled,  and  intense 
expression  of  voice  and  countenance — “ay;  do  you  re¬ 
member  how  Eugene  once  told  us,  that  if  we  went  at  noon¬ 
day  to  the  bottom  of  a  deep  pit,*  we  should  be  able  to 
see  the  stars,  which  on  the  level  ground  are  invisible  ? 
Even  so,  from  the  depths  of  grief — worn,  wretched, 
seared,  and  dying  —  the  blessed  apparitions  and  tokens 
of  heaven  make  themselves  visible  to  our  eyes.  And  I 


*  The  remark  is  in  Aristotle.  Buffon  quotes  it,  with  his  usual 
adroit  felicity,  in,  I  think,  the  first  volume  of  his  great  work. 


266 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


know — I  have  seen  —  I  feel  here,”  pressing  her  hand 
on  her  heart,  “that  my  course  is  run  ;  a  few  sands  only 
are  left  in  the  glass.  Let  us  waste  them  bravely.  Stay, 
Ellinor !  You  see  these  poor  withered  rose-leaves: 
Eugene  gave  them  to  me  the  day  before  —  before  that 
fixed  for  our  marriage.  I  shall  wear  them  to-day,  as  I 
would  have  worn  them  on  the  wedding-day.  When  he 
gathered  the  poor  flower,  how  fresh  it  was  1  and  I  kissed 
off  the  dew  :  now  see  it !  But,  come,  come  ;  this  is 
trifling  :  we  must  not  be  late.  Help  me,  Hell,  help  me  : 
come,  bustle,  quick,  quick  !  Hay,  be  not  so  slovenly  ;  I 
told  you  I  would  be  dressed  with  care  to-day.” 

And  when  Madeline  was  dressed,  though  the  robe  sat 
loose  and  in  large  folds  over  her  shrunken  form,  yet,  as 
she  stood  erect,  and  looked  with  a  smile  that  saddened 
Ellinor  more  than  tears  at  her  image  in  the  glass,  perhaps 
her  beauty  never  seemed  of  a  more  striking  and  lofty 
character, —  she  looked,  indeed,  a  bride,  but  the  bride  of 
no  earthly  nuptials.  Presently  they  heard  an  irresolute 
and  trembling  step  at  the  door,  and  Lester  knocking, 
asked  if  they  were  prepared. 

“  Come  in,  father,”  said  Madeline,  in  a  calm  and  even 
cheerful  voice  ;  and  the  old  man  entered. 

He  cast  a  silent  glance  over  Madeline’s  white  dress, 
and  then  at  his  own,  which  was  deep  mourning :  the 
glance  said  volumes,  and  its  meaning  was  not  marred  by 
words  from  any  one  of  the  three. 

“  Yes,  father,”  said  Madeline,  breaking  the  pause, — ■ 
“we  are  all  ready.  Is  the  carriage  here  ?  ” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  It  is  at  the  door,  my  child.” 

“  Come  then,  Ellinor,  come  !  ”  and  leaning  on  her  arm 
Madeline  walked  towards  the  door.  When  she  got  to 
the  threshold,  she  paused,  and  looked  around  the  room. 

“  What  is  it  you  want  ?  ”  asked  Ellinor. 

“  I  was  but  bidding  all  here  farewell,”  replied  Madeline, 
In  a  soft  and  touching  voice.  “And  now,  before  we  leave 
the  house,  father, —  sister,  one  word  with  you  ;  —  you 
have  ever  been  very,  very  kind  to  me,  and  most  of  all  in 
this  bitter  trial,  when  I  must  have  taxed  your  patience 
sadly  —  for  I  know  all  is  not  right  here  (touching  her 
forehead), —  I  cannot  go  forth  this  day  without  thanking 
you.  Ellinor,  my  dearest  friend  —  my  fondest  sister  — 
my  playmate  in  gladness  —  my  comforter  in  grief — my 
nurse  in  sickness; — since  we  were  little  children,  we 
have  talked  together,  and  laughed  together,  and  wept 
together,  and  though  we  knew  all  the  thoughts  of  each 
other,  we  have  never  known  one  thought  that  we  woulcl 
have  concealed  from  God  ;  — and  now  we  are  going  to 
part !  —  do  not  stop  me,  it  must  be  so,  I  know  it.  But, 
after  a  little  while  may  you  be  happy  again  ;  not  so 
buoyant  as  you  have  been  — that  can  never  be,  but  still 
happy  !  You  are  formed  for  love  and  home,  and  for 
those  ties  you  once  thought  would  be  mine.  God  grant 
that  I  may  have  suffered  for  us  both,  and  that  when  we 
meet  hereafter  you  may  tell  me  you  have  been  happy 
here  !  ” 

“But  you,  father,”  added  Madeline,  tearing  herself 
from  the  neck  of  her  weeping  sister,  and  sinking  on  he*' 
23* 


268 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


knees  before  Lester,  who  leaned  against  the  wall  con¬ 
vulsed  with  his  emotions,  and  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands — “but  you, —  what  can  I  say  to  you?  You,  who 
have  never, —  no,  not  in  my  first  childhood,  said  one  harsh 
word  to  me  —  who  have  sunk  all  a  father’s  authority  in  a 
father’s  love, —  how  can  I  say  all  that  I  feel  for  you  ?  — 
the  grateful  overflowing  (painful,  yet  oh,  how  sweet  1) 
remembrances  which  crowd  around  and  suffocate  me  now  ? 
—  The  time  will  come  when  Ellinor  and  Ellinor’s  children 
must  be  all  in  all  to  you  —  when  of  your*poor  Madeline 
nothing  will  be  left  but  a  memory ;  but  they,  they  will  watch 
on  you  and  tend  you,  and  protect  your  grey  hairs  from 
sorrow,  as  I  might  once  have  hoped  I  also  was  fated  to  do.” 

“  My  child  !  my  child  !  you  break  my  heart !  ”  faltered 
forth  at  last  the  poor  old  man,  who  till  now  had  in  vain 
endeavored  to  speak. 

“Give  me  your  blessing,  dear  father,”  said  Madeline, 
herself  overcome  by  her  feelings  :  — “  Put  your  hand  on 
my  head  and  bless  me  —  and  say,  that  if  I  have  ever 
unconsciously  given  you  a  moment’s  pain,  I  am  forgiven  !  ” 

“  Forgiven  1  ”  repeated  Lester,  raising  his  daughter 
with  weak  and  trembling  arms  as  his  tears  fell  fast  upon 
her  cheek, — “never  did  I  feel  what  an  angel  had  sat 
beside  my  hearth  till  now!  But  be  comforted  —  be 
cheered.  What,  if  heaven  had  reserved  its  crowning 
mercy  till  this  day,  and  Eugene  be  amongst  us,  free, 
acquitted,  triumphant,  before  the  night !  ” 

“  Ha  !  ”  said  Madeline,  as  if  suddenly  roused  by  the 
thought  into  new  life  : — “  ha  !  let  us  hasten  to  find  your 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


269 


words  true.  Yes  !  yes  !  —  if  it  should  be  so  —  if  it  should  ! 
And,”  added  she,  in  a  hollow  voice  (the  enthusiasm 
checked),  “  if  it  were  not  for  my  dreams,  I  might  believe 
it  would  be  so  :  —  But  —  come  —  I  am  ready  now  !  ” 

The  carriage  went  slowly  through  the  crowd  that  the 
fame  of  the  approaching  trial  had  gathered  along  the 
streets,  but  the  blinds  were  drawn  down,  and  the  father 
and  daughter  escaped  that  worst  of  tortures,  the  curious 
gaze  of  strangers  on  distress.  Places  had  been  kept  for 
them  in  court,  and  as  they  left  the  carriage  and  entered 
the  fatal  spot,  the  venerable  figure  of  Lester,  and  the 
trembling  and  veiled  forms  that  clung  to  him,  arrested 
all  eyes.  They  at  length  gained  their  seats,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  a  bustle  in  the  court  drew  off  attention 
from  them.  A ‘buzz,  a  murmur,  a  movement,  a  dread 
pause  !  Houseman  was  first  arraigned  on  his  former  in¬ 
dictment,  acquitted,  and  admitted  evidence  against  Aram, 
who  was  thereupon  arraigned.  The  prisoner  stood  at 
the  bar  !  Madeline  gasped  for  breath,  and  clung,  with 
a  convulsive  motion,  to  her  sister’s  arm.  But  presently, 
with  a  long  sigh,  she  recovered  her  self-possession,  and 
sat  quiet  and  silent,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  Aram's  counte¬ 
nance  ;  and  the  aspect  of  that  countenance  was  well 
calculated  to  sustain  her  courage,  and  to  mingle  a  sort 
of  exulting  pride  with  all  the  strained  and  fearful  acute¬ 
ness  of  her  sympathy.  Something,  indeed,  of  what  he 
had  suffered  was  visible  in  the  prisoner’s  features  ;  the 
»;nes  around  tne  mouth,  in  which  mental  anxiety  generally 
the  most  deeply  writes  its  traces,  were  grown  marked  and 


270 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


farrowed  ;  grey  hairs  were  here  and  there  scattered  amongst 
the  rich  and  long  luxuriance  of  the  dark  brown  locks, 
and  as,  before  his  imprisonment,  he  had  seemed  considera¬ 
bly  younger  than  he  was,  so  now  time  had  atoned  for  its 
past  delay,  and  he  might  have  appeared  to  have  told  more 
years  than  had  really  gone  over  his  head  ;  but  the  re¬ 
markable  light  and  beauty  of  his  eye  was  undimmed  as 
ever,  and  still  the  broad  expanse  of  his  forehead  retained 
its  unwrinkled  surface  and  striking  expression  of  calmness 
and  majesty.  High,  self-collected,  serene,  and  undaunted, 
he  looked  upon  the  crowd,  the  scene,  the  judge,  before 
and  around  him  ;  and  even  on  those  who  believed  him 
guilty,  that  involuntary  and  irresistible  respect  which 
moral  firmness  always  produces  on  the  mind,  forced  an 
unwilling  interest  in  his  fate,  and  even  a  reluctant  hope 
of  his  acquittal. 

Houseman  was  called  upon.  No  one  could  regard  his 
face  without  a  certain  mistrust  and  inward  shudder.  In 
men  prone  to  cruelty,  it  has  generally  been  remarked, 
that  there  is  an  animal  expression  strongly  prevalent  in 
the  countenance.  The  murderer  and  the  lustful  man  are 
often  alike  in  the  physical  structure.  The  bull-throat  — 
the  thick  lips  —  the  receding  forehead  —  the  fierce,  rest¬ 
less  eye,  which  some  one  or  other  says  reminds  you  of 
the  buffalo  in  the  instant  before  he  becomes  dangerous, 
are  the  outward  tokens  of  the  natural  animal  unsoftened 
—  unenlightened  —  unredeemed  —  consulting  only  the 
immediate  desires  of  his  nature,  whatever  be  the  passion 
(lust  or  revenge)  to  which  they  prompt.  And  this  animal 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


271 


expression,  the  witness  of  his  character,  was  especially 
stamped  upon  Houseman’s  rugged  and  harsh  features  ; 
rendered,  if  possible,  still  more  remarkable  at  that  time 
by  a  mixture  of  sulleness  aud  timidity.  The  conviction 
that  his  own  life  was  saved,  could  not  prevent  remorse  at 
his  treachery  in  accusing  his  comrade  —  a  confused  prin* 
ciple  of  honor,  of  which  villains  are  the  most  susceptible 
when  every  other  honest  sentiment  has  deserted  them. 

With  a  low,  choked,  and  sometimes  a  faltering  tone, 
Houseman  deposed,  that,  in  the  night  between  the  7th 
and  8th  of  January,  1744-5,  some  time  before  eleven 
o’clock,  he  went  to  Aram’s  house  ;  that  they  conversed 
on  different  matters  ;  that  he  stayed  there  about  an  hour  ; 
that  some  three  hours  afterwards  he  passed,  in  company 
with  Clarke,  by  Aram’s  house,  and  Aram  was  outside 
the  door,  as  if  he  were  about  to  return  home  ;  that  Aram 
invited  them  both  to  come  in  ;  that  they  did  so  ;  that 
Clarke,  who  intended  to  leave  the  town  before  day-break, 
in  order,  it  was  acknowledged,  to  make  secretly  away 
with  certain  property  in  his  possession,  was  about  to  quit 
the  house,  when  Aram  proposed  to  accompany  him  out 
of  the  town  ;  that  he  (Aram)  and  Houseman  then  went 
forth  with  Clarke  ;  that  they  came  into  the  field  where 
St.  Robert’s  Cave  is,  Aram  and  Clarke  went  into  it,  over 
the  hedge,  and  when  they  came  within  six  or  eight  yards 
of  the  cave,  he  saw  them  quarrelling  ;  that  he  saw  Aram 
strike  Clarke  several  times,  upon  which  Clarke  fell,  and 
he  never  saw  him  rise  again  ;  that  he  saw  no  instrument 

Aram  had,  and  knew  not  that  he  had  any  ;  that  upon  this, 

2l 


272 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


without  any  interposition  or  alarm,  he  left  them  and 
returned  home  ;  that  the  next  morning  he  went  to  Aram’s 
house,  and  asked  what  business  he  had  with  Clarke  last 
night,  and  what  he  had  done  with  him  ?  Aram  replied 
not  to  this  question  ;  but  threatened  him,  if  he  spoke  of 
his  being  in  Clarke’s  company  that  night ;  vowing  revenge, 
either  by  himself  or  some  other  person,  if  he  mentioned 
any  thing  relatixg  to  the  affair.  This  was  the  sum  of 
Houseman’s  evidence, 

A  Mr.  Beckwith  was  next  called,  who  deposed  that 
Aram’s  garden  had  been  searched,  owing  to  a  vague  sus¬ 
picion  that  he  might  have  been  an  accomplice  in  the 
frauds  of  Clarke ;  that  some  parts  of  clothing,  and  also 
some  pieces  of  cambric  which  he  had  sold  to  Clarke  a 
little  while  before,  were  found  there. 

The  third  witness  was  the  watchman,  Thomas  Barnet, 
who  deposed,  that  before  midnight  (it  might  be  a  little 
after  eleven)  he  saw  a  person  come  out  from  Aram’s 
house,  who  had  a  wide  coat  on,  with  the  cape  about  his 
head,  and  seemed  to  shun  him  ;  whereupon  he  went  up  to 
him,  and  put  by  the  cape  of  his  great  coat,  and  perceived 
it  to  be  Richard  Houseman..  He  contented  himself  with 
wishing  him  good  night. 

The  officers  who  executed  the  warrant  then  gave  their 
evidence  as  to  the  arrest,  and  dwelt  on  some  expressions 
dropped  by  Aram  before  he  arrived  at  Knaresborough, 
which,  however,  were  felt  to  be  wholly  unimportant. 

After  this  evidence  there  was  a  short  pause  :  —  and 
then  a  shiver, —  that  recoil  and  tremor  which  men  feel  at 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


273 


any  exposition  of  the  relies  of  the  dead, —  ran  through 
the  court ;  for  the  next  witness  was  mute  —  it  was  the 
skull  of  the  deceased  !  On  the  left  side  there  was  a  frac¬ 
ture,  that  from  the  nature  of  it  seemed  as  if  it  could  onlj 
have  been  made  by  the  stroke  of  some  blunt  instrument. 
The  piece  was  broken,  and  could  not  be  replaced  but 
from  within. 

The  surgeon,  Mr.  Locock,  who  produced  it,  gave  it  as 
his  opinion  that  no  such  breach  could  proceed  from  nat¬ 
ural  decay  —  that  it  was  not  a  recent  fracture,  by  the 
instrument  with  which  it  was  dug  up,  but  seemed  to  be 
of  many  years’  standing. 

This  made  the  chief  part  of  the  evidence  against  Aram  ; 
the  minor  points  we  have  omitted,  and  also  such  as,  like 
that  of  Aram’s  hostess,  would  merely  have  repeated  what 
the  reader  knew  before. 

And  now  closed  the  criminatory  evidence  —  and  now 
the  prisoner  was  asked,  the  thrilling  and  awful  question 
— ‘  What  he  had  to  say  in  his  own  behalf?’  Till  now, 
Aram  had  not  changed  his  posture  or  his  countenance  — 
his  dark  and  piercing  eye  had  for  one  instant  fixed  on 
each  witness  that  appeared  against  him,  and  then  dropped 
its  gaze  upon  the  floor.  But  at  this  moment,  a  faint 
hectic  flushed  his  cheek,  and  he  seemed  to  gather  and 
knit  himself  up  for  defence.  He  glanced  round  the  court 
as  if  to  see  what  had  been  the  impression  created  against 
him.  His  eye  rested  on  the  grey  locks  of  Rowland  Lester, 
who,  looking  down,  had  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
But  beside  that  venerable  form  was  the  still  and  marble 


274 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


face  of  Madeline  ;  and  even  at  that  distance  from  him, 
Aram  perceived  how  intent  was  the  hushed  suspense  of 
her  emotions.  But  when  she  caught  his  eye  —  that  eye 
which,  even  at  such  a  moment,  beamed  unutterable  love, 
pity,  regret  for  her — a  wild,  a  convulsive  smile  of  encourage¬ 
ment,  of  anticipated  triumph,  broke  the  repose  of  her 
colorless  features,  and  suddenly  dying  away,  left  her  lips 
apart,  in  that  expression  which  the  great  masters  of  old. 
faithful  to  nature,  give  alike  to  the  struggle  of  hope  and 
the  pause  of  terror. 

“  My  lord,”  began  Aram,  in  that  remarkable  defence 
still  extant,  and  still  considered  as  wholly  unequalled 
from  the  lips  of  one  defending  his  own  cause  ;  — “  my 
lord,  I  know  not  whether  it  is  of  right,  or  through  some 
indulgence  of  your  lordship,  that  I  am  allowed  the  liberty 
at  this  bar,  and  at  this  time,  to  attempt  a  defence  ;  in¬ 
capable  and  uninstructed  as  I  am  to  speak.  Since,  while 
I  see  so  many  eyes  upon  me,  so  numerous  and  awful  a 
concourse,  fixed  with  attention,  and  filled  with  I  know 
not  what  expectancy,  I  labour,  not  with  guilt,  my  lord, 
but  with  perplexity.  For,  having  never  seen  a  court  but 
this,  being  wholly  unacquainted  with  law,  the  customs  of 
the  bar,  and  all  judiciary  proceedings,  I  fear  I  shall  be 
so  little  capable  of  speaking  with  propriety,  that  it  might 
reasonably  be  expected  to  exceed  my  hope,  should  I  be 
able  to  speak  at  all. 

“  I  have  heard,  my  lord,  the  indictment  read,  wherein 
I  find  myself  charged  with  the  highest  of  human  crime* 
You  will  grant  me,  then,  your  patience,  if  I,  single  and 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


2t5 


unskilful,  destitute  of  friends,  and  unassisted  bv  counsel 
attempt  something,  perhaps,  like  argument,  in  my  defence. 
What  I  have  to  say  will  be  but  short,  and  that  brevity 
may  be  tlm  best  part  of  it. 

“My  lord,  the  tenor  of  my  life  contradicts  this  indict- 
ment.  Who  can  look  back  over  what  is  known  of  ny 
former  years,  and  charge  me  with  one  vice  —  one  offence  ? 
No!  I  concerted  not  schemes  of  fraud  —  projected  no 
violence  —  injured  no  man’s  property  or  person.  My 
days  were  honestly  laborious  —  my  nights  intensely  studi¬ 
ous.  This  egotism  is  not  presumptuous  —  is  not  un¬ 
reasonable.  What  man,  after  a  temperate  use  of  life,  a 
series  of  thinking  and  acting  regularly,  without  one  single 
deviation  from  a  sober  and  even  tenor  of  conduct,  ever 
plunged  into  the  depth  of  crime  precipitately,  and  at  once  ? 
Mankind  are  not  instantaneously  corrupted.  Tiffany 
is  always  progressive.  We  decline  from  right  —  not 
suddenly,  but  step  after  step. 

“  If  my  life  in  general  contradicts  the  indictment,  my 
health,  at  that  time  in  particular,  contradicts  it  more.  A 
little  time  before,  I  had  been  confined  to  my  bed  —  I  had 
suffered  under  a  long  and  severe  disorder.  The  distemper 
left  me  but  slowly,  and  in  part.  So  far  from  being  well 
at  the  time  I  am  charged  with  this  fact,  I  never,  to  this 
day,  perfectly  recovered.  Could  a  person  in  this  con¬ 
dition  execute  violence  against  another?  —  I,  feeble  and 
valetudinary,  with  no  inducement  to  engage  —  no  ability 
to  accomplish  —  no  weapon  wherewith  to  perpetrate  such 
II.— 24 


276 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


a  fact  ;• — without  interest,  without  power,  without  motives, 
without  means  ! 

“  My  lord,  Clarke  disappeared  ;  true  :  but  is  that  a 
proof  of  his  death  ?  The  fallibility  of  all  conclusions  of 
such  a  sort,  from  such  a  circumstance,  is  too  obvious  to 
require  instances.  One  instance  is  before  you  :  this  very 
castle  affords  it. 

“In  June  1757,  William  Thompson,  amidst  all  the 
vigilance  of  this  place,  in  open  day-light,  and  double- 
ironed,  made  his  escape  ;  notwithstanding  an  immediate 
inquiry  set  on  foot  —  notwithstanding  all  advertisements, 
all  search,  he  was  never  seen  or  heard  of  since.  If  this 
man  escaped  unseen,  through  all  these  difficulties,  how 
easy  for  Clarke,  whom  no  difficulties  opposed  1  Yet  what 
would  be  thought  of  a  prosecution  commenced  against 
any  one  last  seen  with  Thompson  ? 

“  These  bones  are  discovered  !  Where  ?  Of  all  places 
in  the  world,  can  we  think  of  any  one,  except,  indeed, 
the  church-yard,  where  there  is  so  great  a  certainty  of 
finding  human  bones,  as  a  hermitage  ?  In  time  past,  the 
hermitage  was  a  place,  not  only  of  religious  retirement, 
but  of  burial.  And  it  has  scarce,  or  never  been  heard 
of,  but  that  every  cell  now  known  contains  or  contained 
these  relics  of  humanity  ;  some  mutilated  —  some  entire  ! 
Give  me  leave  to  remind  your  lordship,  that  here  sat 
solitary  sanctity,  and  here  the  hermit  and  the  anchorite 
hoped  that  repose  for  their  bones  when  dead,  they  here 
enjoyed  when  living.  I  glance  over  a  few  of  the  many 
evidences  that  these  cells  were  used  as  repositories  of  tht 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


277 


dead,  and  enumerate  a  few  of  the  many  caves  similar  it 
origin  to  St.  Robert’s,  in  which  human  bones  have  oeen 
found.”  Here  the  prisoner  instanced,  with  remarkable 
felicity,  several  places  in  which  bones  had  been  found, 
under  circumstances,  and  in  spots,  analogous  to  those  in 
point,*  And  the  reader,  who  will  remember  that  it  is 
the  great  principle  of  the  law,  that  no  man  can  be  con¬ 
demned  for  murder,  unless  the  remains  of  the  deceased 
be  found,  will  perceive  at  once  how  important  this  point 
was  to  the  prisoner’s  defence.  After  concluding  his 
instances,  with  two  facts,  of  skeletons  found  in  fields  in 
the  vicinity  of  Knaresbro’,  he  burst  forth  — 

“  Is,  then,  the  invention  of  those  bones  forgotten  or 
industriously  concealed,  that  the  discovery  of  these  in 
question  may  appear  the  more  extraordinary  ?  Extra¬ 
ordinary —  yet  how  common  an  event!  Every  place 
conceals  such  remains.  In  fields  —  in  hills  —  in  highway 
sides  —  on  wastes  —  on  commons,  lie  frequent  and  unsus¬ 
pected  bones.  And  mark  —  no  example,  perhaps,  occurs 
of  more  than  one  skeleton  being  found  in  one  cell.  Here 
you  find  but  one,  agreeable  to  the  peculiarity  of  every 
known  cell  in  Britain.  Had  two  skeletons  been  discovered, 
then  alone  might  the  fact  have  seemed  suspicious  and 
uncommon.  What  !  Have  we  forgotten  how  difficult, 
as  in  the  case  of  Perkin  Warbec,  and  Lambert  Symnell, 
it  has  been  sometimes  to  identify  the  living  ;  and  shall 
we  now  assign  personality  to  bones  —  bones  which  may 
belong  to  either  sex  ?  How  know  you  that  this  is  even 


*  See  hia  published  defence. 


278 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  skeleton  of  a  man  ?  But  another  skeleton  was  dia- 
covered  by  some  laborer  ?  Was  not  that  skeleton  averred 
to  be  Clarke’s,  full  as  confidently  as  this  ? 

“My  lord,  my  lord  —  must  some  of  the  living  be  made 
answerable  for  all  the  bones  that  earth  has  concealed,  and 
chance  exposed  ?  The  skull  that  has  been  produced,  has 
been  declared  fractured.  But  who  can  surely  tell  whether 
it  was  the  cause  or  the  consequence  of  death  ?  In  May 
1732,  the  remains  of  William  Lord  Archbishop  of  this 
province  were  taken  up  by  permission  in  their  cathedral ; 
the  bones  of  the  skull  were  found  broken,  as  these  are  : 
yet  he  died  by  no  violence  !  —  by  no  blow  that  could  have 
caused  that  fracture.  Let  it  be  considered  how  easily  the 
fracture  on  the  skull  produced  is  accounted  for.  At  the 
dissolution  of  religious  houses,  the  ravages  of  the  times 
affected  both  the  living  and  the  dead.  In  search  after 
imaginary  treasures,  coffins  were  broken,  graves  and  vaults 
dug  open,  monuments  ransacked,  shrines  demolished ; 
parliament  itself  was  called  in  to  restrain  these  violations- 
And  now,  are  the  depredations,  the  iniquities  of  those 
times  to  be  visited  on  this  ?  But  here,  above  all,  was  a 
castle  vigorously  besieged  ;  every  spot  around  was  the 
scene  of  a  sally,  a  conflict,  a  flight,  a  pursuit.  Where  the 
slaughtered  fell,  there  were  they  buried.  What  place  is  not 
burial  earth  in  war  ?  How  many  bones  must  still  remain  in 
the  vicinity  of  that  siege,  for  futurity  to  discover !  Can  you, 
then,  with  so  many  probable  circumstances,  choose  the  one 
least  probable  ?  Can  you  impute  to  the  living  what  zeal 
in  its  fury  may  have  done ;  what  nature  may  have  taken 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


279 


off  and  piety  interred  ;  or  what  war  alone  may  have  de¬ 
stroyed,  alone  deposited  ? 

“And  now,  glance  over  the  circumstantial  evidence  — 
how  weak  —  how  frail !  I  almost  scorn  to  allude  to  it. 
I  will  not  condescend  to  dwell  upon  it.  The  witness  of 
ope  man, —  arraigned  himself!  Is  there  no  chance,  that, 
to  save  his  own  life,  he  might  conspire  against  mine  ?  — • 
no  chance,  that  he  might  have  committed  this  murder,  if 
murder  hath  indeed  been  done  ?  that  conscience  betrayed 
to  his  first  exclamation  ?  that  craft  suggested  his  throw¬ 
ing  that  guilt  on  me,  to  the  knowledge  of  which  he  had 
unwittingly  confessed  ?  He  declares  that  he  saw  me  strike 
Clarke  —  that  he  saw  him  fall ;  yet  he  utters  no  cry,  no 
reproof.  He  calls  for  no  aid  ;  he  returns  quietly  home  ; 
he  declares  that  he  knows  not  what  became  of  the  body, 
yet  he  tells  where  the  body  is  laid.  He  declares  that  he 
went  straight  home,  and  alone ;  yet  the  woman  with  whom 
I  lodged,  deposes  that  Houseman  and  I  returned  to  my 
house  in  company  together  ; —  what  evidence  is  tb?«  ?  and 
from  whom  does  it  come  ?  —  ask  yourselves.  As  for  the 
rest  of  the  evidence,  what  does  it  amount  to  ?  The  watch¬ 
man  sees  Houseman  leave  my  house  at  night.  What 
more  probable  —  but  what  less  connected  with  the  murder, 
real  or  supposed,  of  Clarke  ?  Some  pieces  of  clothing 
are  found  buried  in  my  garden  ;  but  how  can  it  be  shown 
that  they  belonged  to  Clarke  ?  Who  can  swear  to  — 
who  can  prove  anything  so  vague  ?  And  if  found  there, 
even  if  belonging  to  Clarke,  what  proof  that  they  were 
there  deposited  by  me  ?  How  likely  that  the  real  crimi« 
24* 


280 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


nal  may,  in  the  dead  of  night,  have  preferred  any  spot, 
rather  than  that  round  his  own  home,  to  conceal  the 
evidence  of  his  crime  ? 

“  How  impotent  such  evidence  as  this !  and  how  poor, 
how  precarious,  even  the  strongest  of  mere  circumstantial 
evidence  invariably  is  !  Let  it  rise  to  probability,  to  the 
strongest  degree  of  probability  ;  it  is  but  probability 
still.  Recollect  the  case  of  the  two  Harrisons,  recorded 
by  Hr.  Howell ;  both  suffered  on  circumstantial  evidence, 
on  account  of  the  disappearance  of  a  man,  who,  like 
Clarke,  contracted  debts,  borrowed  money,  and  went  off 
unseen.  And  this  man  returned  several  years  after  their 
execution.  Why  remind  you  of  Jacques  du  Moulin,  in 
the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second  ?  —  why  of  the  unhappy 
Coleman,  convicted,  though  afterwards  found  innocent, 
and  whose  children  perished  for  want,  because  the  world 
believed  the  father  guilty  ?  Why  should  I  mention  the 
perjury  of  Smith,  who,  admitted  king’s  evidence,  screened 
himself  by  accusing  Fainloth  and  Loveday  of  the  murder 
of  Dunn  ?  The  first  was  executed,  the  second  was  about 
to  share  the  same  fate,  when  the  perjury  of  Smith  was 
incontrovertibly  proved 

“And  now,  my  lord,  having  endeavored  to  show  that 
the  whole  of  this  charge  is  altogether  repugnant  to  every 
part  of  my  life  ;  that  it  is  inconsistent  with  my  condition 
of  health  about  that  time  ;  that  no  rational  inference  of 
the  death  of  a  person  can  be  drawn  from  his  disappear¬ 
ance  ;  that  hermitages  were  the  constant  repositories  of 
the  bones  of  the  recluse  ;  that  the  proofs  of  these  are  well 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


281 


authenticated ;  that  the  revolution  in  religion,  or  the  for¬ 
tunes  of  war,  have  mangled  or  buried  the  dead  ;  that  the 
strongest  circumstantial  evidence  is  often  lamentably  falla¬ 
cious  ;  that  in  my  case,  the  evidence,  so  far  from  being 
strong,  is  weak,  disconnected,  contradictory, —  what  re¬ 
mains  ?  A  conclusion,  perhaps,  no  less  reasonably  than 
impatiently  wished  for.  I,  at  last,  after  nearly  a  year’s 
confinement,  equal  to  either  fortune,  intrust  myself  to  the 
candor,  the  justice,  the  humanity  of  your  lordship,  and  to 
yours,  my  countrymen,  gentlemen  of  the  jury.” 

The  prisoner  ceased  ;  and  the  painful  and  choking  sen¬ 
sations  of  sympathy,  compassion,  regret,  admiration,  all 
uniting,  all  mellowing  into  one  fearful  hope  for  his  acquit¬ 
tal,  made  themselves  felt  through  the  crowded  court. 

In  two  persons  only,  an  uneasy  sentiment  remained  — 
a  sentiment  that  the  prisoner  had  not  completed  that 
which  they  would  have  asked  from  him.  The  one  was 
Lester; — he  had  expected  a  more  warm,  a  more  earnest, 
though,  perhaps,  a  less  ingenious  and  artful  defence.  He 
had  expected  Aram  to  dwell  far  more  on  the  improbable 
and  contradictory  evidence  of  Houseman  ;  and  above  all, 
to  have  explained  away  all  that  was  still  left  unaccounted 
for  in  his  acquaintance  with  Clarke  (as  we  will  still  call 
the  deceased),  and  the  allegation  that  he  had  gone  out 
with  him  on  the  fatal  night  of  the  disappearance  of  the 
latter.  At  every  word  of  the  prisoner’s  defence,  he  had 
waited  almost  breathlessly,  in  the  hope  that  the  next  sen¬ 
tence  would  begin  an  explanation  or  a  denial  on  this 
point ;  and  when  Aram  ceased,  a  chill,  a  depression,  a 


282 


EUGENE  ARAM 


disappointment,  remained  vaguely  on  his  mind.  Yet  so 
lightly  and  so  haughtily  had  Aram  approached  and  glanced 
over  the  immediate  evidence  of  the  witnesses  against  him, 
that  his  silence  here  might  have  been  but  the  natural 
result  of  a  disdain,  that  belonged  essentially  to  his  calm 
and  proud  character.  The  other  person  we  referred  to, 
and  whom  his  defence  had  not  impressed  with  a  belief 
in  its  truth,  equal  to  an  admiration  for  its  skill,  was  one 
far  more  important  in  deciding  the  prisoner’s  fate  —  it 
was  the  judge  ! 

But*Madeline — alas!  alas!  how  sanguine  is  a  woman’s 
heart,  when  the  innocence,  the  fate  of  the  one  she  loves 
is  concerned  !  —  a  radiant  flush  broke  over  a  face  so  color¬ 
less  before  ;  and  with  a  joyous  look,  a  kindled  eye,  a  lofty 
brow,  she  turned  to  Ellinor,  pressed  her  hand  in  silence, 
and  once  more  gave  up  her  whole  soul  to  the  dread  pro¬ 
cedure  of  the  court. 

The  judge  now  began. —  It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted, 
that  we  have  no  minute  and  detailed  memorial  of  the 
trial,  except  only  the  prisoner’s  defence.  The  summing 
up  of  the  judge  was  considered  at  that  time  scarcely  less 
remarkable  than  the  speech  of  the  prisoner.  He  stated 
the  evidence  with  peculiar  care  and  at  great  length  to 
the  jury.  He  observed  how  the  testimony  of  the  other 
deponents  confirmed  that  of  Houseman  ;  and  then,  touch¬ 
ing  on  the  contradictory  parts  of  the  latter,  he  made  them 
understand  how  natural,  how  inevitable,  was  some  such 
contradiction  in  a  witness  who  had  not  only  to  give  evi¬ 
dence  against  another,  but  to  refrain  from  criminating 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


283 


himself.  There  could  be  no  donbt  but  that  Housemaa 
was  an  accomplice  in  the  crime  ;  and  all  therefore  that 
seemed  improbable  in  his  giving  no  alarm  when  the  deed 
was  done,  &c.  &c.  was  easily  rendered  natural  and  recon¬ 
cilable  with  the  other  parts  of  his  evidence.  Comment¬ 
ing  then  on  the  defence  of  the  prisoner  (who,  as  if  dis¬ 
daining  to  rely  on  aught  save  his  own  genius  or  his  own 
innocence,  had  called  no  witnesses,  as  he  had  employed 
no  counsel),  and  eulogizing  its  eloquence  and  art,  till  he 
destroyed  their  effect,  by  guarding  the  jury  against  that 
impression  which  eloquence  and  art  produce  in  defiance 
of  simple  fact,  he  contended  that  Aram  had. yet  alleged 
nothing  to  invalidate  the  positive  evidence  against  him. 

I  have  often  heard,  from  men  accustomed  to  courts  of 
law,  that  nothing  is  more  marvellous  than  the  sudden 
change  in  the  mind  of  a  jury,  which  the  summing  up  of 
the  judge  can  produce  ;  and  in  the  present  instance  it 
was  like  magic.  The  fatal  look  of  a  common  intelligence, 
of  a  common  assent,  was  exchanged  among  the  doomers 
of  the  prisoner’s  life  and  death,  as  the  judge  concluded. 
****** 

****** 

They  found  the  prisoner  guilty. 

****** 

The  judge  drew  on  the  black  cap. 

****** 

Aram  received  his  sentence  in  profound  composure. 
Before  he  left  the  bar,  he  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
and  looked  slowly  around  the  court  with  that  thrilling 


284 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


and  almost  sublime  unmovedness  of  aspect,  which  belonged 
to  him  alone  of  all  men,  and  which  was  rendered  yet  more 
impressive  by  a  smile  —  slight  but  eloquent  beyond  all 
words  —  of  a  soul  collected  in  itself:  no  forced  and  con¬ 
vulsive  effort  vainly  masking  the  terror  or  the  pang  ;  no 
mockery  of  self  that  would  mimic  contempt  for  others, 
but  more  in  majesty  than  bitterness ;  rather  as  daring 
fate  than  defying  the  judgment  of  others; — rather  as 
if  he  wrapped  himself  in  the  independence  of  a  quiet,  than 
the  disdain  of  a  despairing,  heart  I 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


285 


* 


CHAPTER  YI. 

THE  DEATH. — THE  PRISON. — AN  INTERVIEW. — ITS  RESULT 


.  .  Lay  her  i’  the  earth; 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring. 

***** 

See  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of  fighting 
That  would  not  let  me  sleep.” —  Hamlet. 

“Bear  with  me  a  little  longer,”  said  Madeline;  “I 
shall  be  well,  quite  well,  presently.” 

Ellinor  let  down  the  carriage-window  to  admit  the  air  ; 
and  she  took  the  occasion  to  tell  the  coachman  to  drive 
faster.  There  was  that  change  in  Madeline’s  voice  which 
alarmed  her. 

“How  noble  was  his  look  1  you  saw  him  smile  !”  con¬ 
tinued  Madeline,  talking  to  herself;  “And  they  will 
murder  him  after  all.  Let  me  see  ;  this  day  week,  ay, 
ere  this  day  week,  we  shall  meet  again,” 

“  Faster  1  for  God’s  sake,  Ellinor,  tell  them  to  drive 
faster  !  ”  cried  Lester,  as  he  felt  the  form  that  leaned  on 
his  bosom  wax  heavier  and  heavier.  They  sped  on  ;  the 
house  was  in  sight ;  that  lonely  and  cheerless  house ; 
not  their  sweet  home  at  Grassdale,  with  the  ivy  round 
its  porch,  and  the  quiet  church  behind  !  The  sun  was 
setting  slowly,  and  Ellinor  drew  the  blind  to  shade  the 
glare  from  her  sister’s  eye. 


286 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Madeline  felt  the  kindness,  and  smiled.  Ellinor  wiped 
her  eyes,  and  tried  to  smile  again.  The  carriage  stopped, 
and  Madeline  was  lifted  out ;  she  stood,  supported  by 
her  father  and  Ellinor,  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold. 
She  looked  on  the  golden  sun  and  the  gentle  earth,  and 
the  little  motes  dancing  in  the  western  ray  —  all  was 
steeped  in  quiet,  and  full  of  the  peace  and  tranquillity  of 
the  pastoral  life  !  “No,  no,”  she  muttered,  grasping  her 
father’s  hand.  “  How  is  this  ?  this  is  not  his  hand  !  Ah, 
no,  no  ;  I  am  not  with  him  !  Father,”  she  added,  in  a 
louder  and  deeper  voice,  rising  from  his  breast,  and  stand¬ 
ing  alone  and  unaided  ; — “father,  bury  this  little  packet 
with  me,  they  are  his  letters  ;  do  not  break  the  seal,  and 
—  and  tell  him  that  I  never  felt  how  deeply  I  —  loved 
him  —  till  all  —  the  world — had  —  deserted  him!- - ” 

She  uttered  a  faint  cry  of  pain,  and  fell  at  once  to  the 
ground  ;  she  lived  a  few  hours  longer,  but  never  made 
speech  or  sign,  or  evinced  token  of  life  but  its  breath, 
which  died  at  last  gradually  —  imperceptibly  —  away. 

On  the  following  evening  Walter  obtained  entrance  to 
Aram’s  cell :  that  morning  the  prisoner  had  seeu  Lester  ; 
that  morning  he  had  heard  of  Madeline’s  death.  He  had 
shed  no  tear ;  he  had,  in  the  affecting  language  of  Scrip¬ 
ture,  “  turned  his  face  to  the  wall ;  ”  none  had  seen  his 
emotions  ;  yet  Lester  felt  in  that  bitter  interview  that  his 
daughter  was  duly  mourned. 

Aram  did  not  lift  his  eyes  when  Walter  was  admitted, 
and  the  young  man  stood  almost  at  his  knee  before  he 
perceived  him.  Aram  then  looked  ud  and  thev  gazed 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


287 


on  each  other  for  a  moment,  but  without  speaking,  till 
Walter  said  in  a  hollow  voice, — 

“  Eugene  Aram  1  ” 

“Ay  !  ” 

“Madeline  Lester  is  no  more.” 

“  I  have  heard  it !  I  am  reconciled.  Better  now  than 
later.” 

“Aram  !  ”  said  Walter,  in  a  tone  trembling  with  emo¬ 
tion,  and  passionately  clasping  his  hands,  “  I  entreat,  I 
implore  you,  at  this  awful  time,  if  it  be  within  your  power, 
to  lift  from  my  heart  a  load  that  weighs  it  to  the  dust, 
that,  if  left  there,  will  make  me  through  life  a  crushed  and 
miserable  man  : — I  implore  you,  in  the  name  of  common 
humanity,  by  your  hopes  of  heaven,  to  remove  it !  The 
time  now  has  irrevocably  passed,  when  your  denial  or 
your  confession  could  alter  your  doom;  your  days  are 
numbered  ;  there  is  no  hope  of  reprieve  :  I  implore  you, 
then,  if  you  were  led  —  I  will  not  ask  how,  or  wherefore 
—  to  the  execution  of  the  crime  for  the  charge  of  which 
you  die,  to  say, —  to  whisper  to  me  but  one  word  of  con¬ 
fession,  and  I,  the  sole  child  of  the  murdered  man,  will 
forgive  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul.” 

Walter  paused,  unable  to  proceed. 

Aram’s  brow  worked  ;  he  turned  aside  ;  he  made  no 
answer  ;  his  head  dropped  on  his  bosom,  and  his  eyes 
were  unmovedly  fixed  on  the  earth. 

“Reflect,”  continued  Walter,  recovering  himself, — 
“  reflect !  I  have  been  the  involuntary  instrument  in 

bringing  you  to  this  awful  fate, — in  destroying  the  happi- 
II.  — 25  2m 


288 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


ness  of  my  own  house, —  in  —  in  —  in  breaking  the  heart 
of  the  woman  whom  I  adored  even  as  a  boy.  If  you  be 
innocent,  what  a  dreadful  remembrance  is  left  to  me  1 
Be  merciful,  Aram  !  be  merciful :  and  if  this  deed  was 
done  by  your  hand,  say  to  me  but  one  word  to  remove 
the  terrible  uncertainty  that  now  harrows  up  my  being 
What  now  is  earth,  is  man,  is  opinion,  to  you  ?  God 
only  now  can  judge  you.  The  eye  of  God  reads  your 
heart  while  I  speak  ;  and,  in  the  awful  hour  when  eternity 
opens  to  you,  if  the  guilt  has  been  indeed  committed, 
think, —  oh,  think  how  much  lighter  will  be  your  offence 
if,  by  vanquishing  the  stubborn  heart,  you  can  relieve  a 
human  being  from  a  doubt  that  otherwise  will  make  the 
curse — the  horror  of  an  existence.  Aram,  Aram,  if  the 
father’s  death  came  from  you,  shall  the  life  of  the  son  be 
made  a  b  rthen  to  him  through  you  also  ?  ” 

“  What  would  you  have  of  me  ?  speak  !  ”  said  Aram, 
but  without  lifting  his  face  from  his  breast. 

“  Much  of  your  nature  belies  this  crime.  You  are  wise, 

* 

calm,  beneficent  to  the  distressed.  Revenge,  passion, — 
nay,  the  sharp  pangs  of  hunger,  may  have  urged  you  t<? 
one  criminal  deed  :  but  your  soul  is  not  wholly  hardened  : 
nay,  I  think  I  can  so  far  trust  you,  that  if  at  this  dread 
moment  —  the  clay  of  Madeline  Lester  scarce  yet  cold, 
woe,  busy  and  softening  at  your  breast,  and  the  son  of 
the  murdered  dead  before  you  ; — if  at  this  moment  you 
can  lay  your  hand  on  your  breast,  and  say,  1  Before  God, 
and  at  peril  of  my  soul,  I  am  innocent  of  this  deed,’  t 
will  depart, —  I  will  believe  you,  and  bear,  as  bear  I  may, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


289 


the  reflection,  that  I  have  been  one  of  the  unconscious 
agents  in  condemning  to  a  fearful  death  an  innocent  man  f 
If  innocent  in  this  —  how  good,  how  perfect,  in  all  else  ! 
But,  if  you  cannot  at  so  dark  a  crisis  take  that  oath, — 
then  !  oh  then  !  be  just  —  be  generons,  even  in  guilt,  and 
let  me  not  be  haunted  throughout  life  by  the  spectre  of  a 
ghastly  and  restless  doubt!  Speak!  oh,  speak!” 

Well,  well  may  we  judge  how  crushing  must  have  been 
that  doubt  in  the  breast  of  one  naturally  bold  and  fiery, 
when  it  thus  humbled  the  very  son  of  the  murdered  man 
to  forget  wrath  and  vengeance,  and  descend  to  prayer  ! 
But  Walter  had  heard  the  defence  of  Aram  ;  he  had 
marked  his  mien  ;  not  once  in  that  trial  had  he  taken  his 
eyes  from  the  prisoner,  and  he  had  felt,  like  a  bolt  of  ice 
through  his  heart,  that  the  sentence  passed  on  the  accused, 
his  judgment  could  not  have  passed  !  How  dreadful 
must,  then,  have  been  the  state  of  his  mind  when,  repair¬ 
ing  to  Lester’s  house,  he  found  it  the  house  of  death  — 
the  pure,  the  beautiful  spirit  gone  —  the  father  mourning 
for  his  child,  and  not  to  be  comforted  —  and  Ellinor  ?  — • 
No  !  scenes  like  these,  thoughts  like  these,  pluck  the 
pride  from  a  man’s  heart ! 

“  Walter  Lester  !  ”  said  Aram,  after  a  pause  ;  but  rais¬ 
ing  his  head  with  dignity,  though  on  the  features  there 
was  but  one  expression  —  woe,  unutterable  woe  ; — “  Wal¬ 
ter  Lester !  I  had  thought  to  quit  life  with  my  tale  untold  ; 
but  you  have  not  appealed  to  me  in  vain  !  I  tear  the  self 

from  my  heart !  —  I  renounce  the  last  haughty  dream  in 

* 

vaich  I  wrapt  myself  from  the  ills  around  me.  You 


291* 


EUGENE  ARAM, 


shall  learn  ail,  and  judge  accordingly.  But  to  your  ear 
the  tale  can  scarce  be  told: — the  son  cannot  hear  in 
silence  that  which,  unless  I  too  unjustly,  too  wholly  con¬ 
demn  myself,  I  must  say  of  the  dead  I  But  time,”  con¬ 
tinued  Aram,  mutteringly,  and  with  his  eyes  on  vacancy, 
“time  does  not  press  too  fast.  Better  let  the  hand  speak 
than  the  tongue: — yes;  the  day  of  execution  is  —  ay, 
ay — two  days  yet  to  it — to-morrow  ?  no  !  Young  man,” 
he  said  abruptly,  turning  to  Walter,  “on  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  about  seven  in  the  evening  —  the  eve  before 
that  morn  fated  to  be  my  last  —  come  to  me.  At  that 
time  I  will  place  in  your  hands  a  paper  containing  the 
whole  history  that  connects  myself  with  your  father.  On 
the  word  of  a  man  on  the  brink  of  another  world,  no  truth 
that  imports  your  interest  therein  shall  be  omitted.  But 
read  it  not  till  I  am  no  more  ;  and  when  read,  confide 
the  tale  to  none  till  Lester’s  grey  hairs  have  gone  to  the 
grave.  This  swear  !  ’tis  an  oath  difficult  perhaps  to  keep, 
but - ” 

“As  my  Redeemer  lives,  I  will  swear  to  both  condi¬ 
tions  !  ”  cried  Walter,  with  a  solemn  fervor.  “But  tell 
me  now,  at  least - ” 

“Ask  me  no  more  1  ”  interrupted  Aram,  in  his  turn, 
“  The  time  is  near  when  you  will  know  all !  Tarry  that 
time,  and  leave  me!  Yes,  leave  me  now  —  at  once  — 
leave  me  !  ” 

To  dwell  lingeringly  over  those  passages  which  excite 
pain  without  satisfying  curiosity,  is  scarcely  the  duty  of 
the  drama,  or  of  that  province  even  nobler  than  the  drama ; 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


29. 


for  it  requires  minuter  care  —  indulges  in  more  complete 
description — yields  to  more  elaborate  investigation  of 
motives  —  commands  a  greater  variety  of  chords  in  the 
human  heart  —  to  which,  with  poor  and  feeble  power  for 
so  high,  yet  so  ill-appreciated  a  task  we  now,  not  irrever¬ 
ently  if  rashly,  aspire  ! 

We  glance  not  around  us  at  the  chamber  of  death  — 
at  the  broken  heart  of  Lester  —  at  the  two-fold  agony 
of  his  surviving  child  —  the  agony  which  mourns  yet 
seeks  to  console  another  —  the  mixed  emotions  of  Walter, 
in  which  an  unsleeping  eagerness  to  learn  the  fearful  all 
formed  the  main  part  —  the  solitary  cell  and  solitary  heart 
of  the  convicted  —  we  glance  not  at  these  ; —  we  pass  at 
once  to  the  evening  in  which  Aram  again  saw  Walter 
Lester,  and  for  the  last  time. 

“You  are  come,  punctual  to  the  hour,”  said  he,  in  a 

4 

low  clear  voice  :  “  I  have  not  forgotten  my  word  ;  the 
fulfilment  of  that  promise  has  been  a  victory  over  myself 
which  no  man  can  appreciate  :  but  I  owed  it  to  you.  ] 
have  discharged  the  debt.  Enough  !  —  I  have  done  more 
than  I  at  first  purposed.  I  have  extended  my  narration, 
but  superficially  in  some  parts,  over  my  life:  that  prolixity, 
perhaps,  I  owed  to  myself.  Remember  your  promise  : 
this  seal  is  not  to  be  broken  till  the  pulse  is  stilled  in  the 
hand  which  now  gives  you  these  papers  !  ” 

Walter  renewed  his  oath,  and  Aram,  pausing  for  a 
moment,  continued  in  an  altered  and  softening  voice, — 

“Be  kind  to  Lester:  soothe,  console  him; — never 

• 

by  a  hint  let  him  think  otherwise  of  me  than  he  does. 

25  * 


EUGENE  ARAM 


292 

For  his  sake  more  than  mine  I  ask  this.  Venerable,  kind 
old  man  !  the  warmth  of  human  affection  has  rarely  glowed 
for  me.  To  the  few  who  loved  me,  how  deeply  I  have 
repaid  the  love  !  But  these  are  not  words  to  pass  between 
you  and  me.  Farewell !  Yet,  before  we  part,  say  this 
much  :  whatever  I  have  revealed  in  this  confession, — 
whatever  has  been  my  wrong  to  you,  or  whatever  (a  less 
offence)  the  language  I  have  now,  justifying  myself,  used 
to  —  to  your  father  —  say,  that  you  grant  me  that  pardon 
which  one  man  may  grant  another.” 

“Fully,  cordially,”  said  Walter. 

“  In  the  day  that  for  you  brings  the  death  that  to¬ 
morrow  awaits  me,”  said  Aram,  in  a  deep  tone,  “be  that 
forgiveness  accorded  to  yourself!  Farewell.  In  that 
untried  variety  of  being  which  spreads  beyond  us,  who 
knows  but,  that  in  our  several  progresses  from  grade  to 
grade,  and  world  to  world,  our  souls,  though  in  far-distant 
ages,  may  meet  again  !  —  one  dim  and  shadowy  memory 
of  this  hour  the  link  between  us:  farewell  —  farewell  !” 

For  the  reader’s  interest  we  think  it  better  (and  cer¬ 
tainly  it  is  more  immediately  in  the  due  course  of  narra¬ 
tive,  if  not  actual  events)  to  lay  at  once  before  him  the 
confession  that  Aram  placed  in  Walter’s  hands,  without 
waiting  till  that  time  when  Walter  himself  broke  the  seal 
of  a  confession, —  not  of  deeds  alone,  but  of  thoughts  how 
wild  and  entangled  —  of  feelings  how  strange  and  dark 
—  of  a  starred  soul  that  had  wandered  from  how  proud 
an  orbit,  to  what  perturbed  and  unholy  regions  of  night 
and  chaos  !  For  me  I  have  not  sought  to  derive  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


293 


reader’s  interest  from  the  vulgar  sources  that  such  a  tale 
might  have  afforded  ;  I  have  suffered  him,  almost  from 
tne  beginning,  to  pierce  into  Aram’s  secret ;  and  1  have 
prepared  him  for  that  guilt,  with  which  other  narrators 
of  this  story  might  have  only  sought  to  surprise. 


CHAPTER  Y  1 1. 

THE  CONFESSION  ;  AND  THE  FATE. 

% 

“In  winter’s  tedious  nights,  sit  by  the  fire 
With  good  old  folks,  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 
Of  woeful  ages  long  ago  betid : 

And  ere  thou  bid  good  night,  to  quit  their  grief, 

Tell  them  the  lamentable  fall  of  me.” — Richard  II. 

“  I  was  born  at  Ramsgill,  a  little  village  in  Netherdale. 
My  family  had  originally  been  of  some  rank  ;  they  were 
formerly  lords  of  the  town  of  Aram,  on  the  southern 
banks  of  the  Tees.  But  time  had  humbled  these  preten¬ 
sions  to  consideration  ;  though  they  were  still  fondly 
cherished  by  the  inheritors  of  an  ancient  name,  and  idle 
Out  haughty  recollections.  My  father  resided  on  a  small 
farm,  and  was  especially  skilful  in  horticulture,  a  taste 
l  derived  from  him.  When  I  was  about  thirteen,  the 
deep  and  intense  passion  that  has  made  the  demon  of 
my  life,  first  stirred  palpably  within  me.  I  had  always 
been,  from  my  cradle,  of  a  solitary  disposition,  and  inclined 


294 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


to  reverie  and  musing  ;  these  traits  of  character  heralded 
the  love  that  now  seized  me  —  the  love  of  knowledge. 
Opportunity  or  accident  first  directed  my  attention  to  the 
abstruser  sciences.  I  poured  my  soul  over  that  noble 
study,  which  is  the  best  foundation  of  all  true  discovery  ; 
and  the  success  I  met  with  soon  turned  my  pursuits  into 
more  alluring  channels.  History,  poetry, —  the  mastery 
of  the  past,  and  the  spell  that  admits  us  into  the  visionary 
world, — took  the  place  which  lines  and  numbers  had  done 
before.  I  became  gradually  more  and  more  rapt  and 
solitary  in  my  habits ;  knowledge  assumed  a  yet  more 
lovely  and  bewitching  character,  and  every  day  the  passion 
to  attain  it  increased  upon  me;  I  do  not, —  I  have  not 
now  the  heart  to  do  it  —  enlarge  upon  what  I  acquired 
without  assistance,  and  with  labor  sweet  in  proportion  to 
its  intensity.*  The  world,  the  creation,  all  things  that 
lived,  moved,  and  were,  became  to  me  objects  contributing 
to  one  passionate,  and,  I  fancied,  one  exalted  end.  I 
suffered  the  lowlier  pleasures  of  life,  and  the  charms  of 
its  more  common  ties,  to  glide  away  from  me  untasted 
and  unfelt.  As  you  read,  in  the  East,  of  men  remaining 
motionless  for  days  together,  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  heavens,  my  mind,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  things  above  its  reach,  had  no  sight  of  what  passed 
around.  My  parents  died,  and  I  was  an  orphan.  I  had 

*  We  learn  from  a  letter  of  Eugene  Aram’s,  now  extant,  that  his 
method  of  acquiring  the  learned  languages  was  to  linger  over  five 
lines  at  a  time,  and  never  to  quit  a  passage  till  he  thought  he  had 
comprehended  its  meaning. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


no  home,  and  no  wealth  ;  but  wherever  the  held  contained 
a  flower,  or  the  heavens  a  star,  there  was  matter  of  thought, 
and  for  delight,  to  me.  I  wandered  alone  for  months 
together,  seldom  sleeping  but  in  the  open  air,  and  shun¬ 
ning  the  human  form  as  that  part  of  God’s  works  from 
which  I  could  learn  the  least.  I  came  to  Knaresbro’ :  the 
beauty  of  the  country,  a  facility  in  acquiring  books  from 
a  neighboring  library  that  was  open  to  me,  made  me 
resolve  to  settle  there.  And  now,  new  desires  opened 
upon  me  with  new  stores :  I  became  haunted  with  the 
ambition  to  enlighten  and  instruct  my  race.  At  first,  I 
had  loved  knowledge  solely  for  itself :  I  now  saw  afar  an 
object  grander  than  knowledge.  To  what  end,  said  I, 
are  these  labors  ?  Why  do  I  feed  a  lamp  which  consumes 
itself  in  a  desert  place  ?  Why  do  I  heap  up  riches,  with¬ 
out  asking  who  shall  gather  them  ?  I  was  restless  and 
discontented.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  was  friendless  ;  I 
was  strange  to  my  kind  ;  I  saw  my  desires  checked  when 
their  aim  was  at  the  highest :  all  that  was  aspiring  in  my 
hopes,  and  ardent  in  my  nature,  was  cramped  and  chilled. 
I  exhausted  the  learning  within  my  reach.  Where,  with 
my  appetite  excited,  not  slaked,  was  I,  destitute  and  pen¬ 
niless,  to  search  for  more  ?  My  abilities,  by  bowing  them 
to  the  lowliest  tasks,  but  kept  me  from  famine: —  wa3 
this  to  be  my  lot  for  ever  ?  And  all  the  while  I  was  thus 
grinding  down  my  soul  in  order  to  satisfy  the  vile  physi¬ 
cal  wants,  what  golden  hours,  what  glorious  advantages 
what  openings  into  heavens  of  science,  what  chances  of’ 
illuminating  mankind,  were  for  ever  lost  to  me  I  Some- 


296 


EUGENE  ARAM 


times,  when  the  young,  to  whom  I  taught  some  homely 
elements  of  knowledge,  came  around  me  ;  when  they  lookee 
me  in  the  face  with  their  laughing  eyes ;  when,  for  they 
all  loved  me,  they  told  me  their  little  pleasures  and  their 
petty  sorrows,  I  have  wished  that  I  could  have  gone  back 
again  into  childhood,  and,  becoming  as  one  of  them,  enter 
into  that  heaven  of  quiet  which  was  denied  me  now. 
Yet  it  was  more  often  with  an  indignant  than  a  sorrowful 
spirit  that  I  looked  upon  my  lot.  For,  there,  lay  my  life 
imprisoned  in  penury  as  in  the  walls  of  a  gaol  —  Heaven 
smiled  and  earth  blossomed  around,  but  how  scale  the 
stern  barriers? — how  steal  through  the  inexorable  gate? 
True,  that  by  bodily  labor  I  could  give  food  to  the  body 
—  to  starve  by  such  labor  the  craving  wants  of  the  mind. 
Beg  I  could  not.  When  ever  lived  the  real  student,  the 
true  minister  and  priest  of  Knowledge,  who  was  not  filled 
with  the  lofty  sense  of  the  dignity  of  his  calling?  Was 
I  to  show  the  sores  of  my  pride,  and  strip  my  heart  from 
its  clothing,  and  ask  the  dull  fools  of  wealth  not  to  let  a 
scholar  starve  ?  No  !  —  he  whom  the  vilest  poverty  ever 
stooped  to  this,  may  be  the  quack,  but  never  the  true 
disciple,  of  Learning.  What  did  I  then  ?  I  devoted  the 
meanest  part  of  my  knowledge  to  the  procuring  the  bare 
means  of  life,  and  the  knowledge  that  pierced  to  the 
depths  of  earth,  and  numbered  the  stars  of  heaven  —  whyf 
that  was  valueless  in  the  market ! 

“  In  Knaresbro’,  at  this  time,  I  met  a  distant  relation, 
Richard  Houseman.  Sometimes  in  our  walks  we  encoun¬ 
tered  each  other ;  for  he  sought  me,  and  I  could  not 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


2<n 


always  avoid  him.  He  was  a  man  like  myself,  born  to 
poverty,  yet  lie  haa  always  enjoyed  wliat  to  him  was 
wealth.  This  seemed  a  mystery  to  me  ;  and  when  we  me" 
we  sometimes  conversed  upon  it.  ‘  You  are  poor,  with 
all  your  wisdom,’  said  he.  ‘I  know  nothing;  but  I  am 
never  poor.  Why  is  this  ?  The  world  is  my  treasury. 
— I  live  upon  my  kind. — Society  is  my  foe. — Laws  order 
me  to  starve;  but  self-preservation  is  an  instinct  mo* 
sacred  than  society,  and  more  imperious  than  laws.’ 

“  The  audacity  of  this  discourse  revolted  me.  4t  first 
I  turned  away  in  disgust; — then  I  stood  and  heard  —  to 
ponder  and  inquire.  Nothing  so  tasks  the  man  of  books 
as  his  first  blundering  guess  at  the  problems  of  a  guilty 
heart  1  —  Houseman  had  been  a  soldier  ;  he  had  seen  the 
greatest  part  of  Europe  ;  he  possessed  a  strong  shrewd 
sense  ;  he  was  a  villain  ;  —  but  a  villain  bold,  adroit,  and 
not  then  thoroughly  unredeemed.  Trouble  seized  me  as 
I  heard  him,  and  the  shadow  of  his  life  stretched  farther 
and  darker  over  the  wilderness  of  mine.  When  House¬ 
man  asked  me,  ‘  What  law  befriended  the  man  without 
money?  —  to  what  end  I  had  cultivated  my  mind?  —  or 
what  good  the  voice  of  knowledge  could  effect  while 
Poverty  forbade  it  to  be  heard?’  the  answer  died  upon 
my  lips.  Then  I  sought  to  escape  from  these  terrible 
doubts.  I  plunged  again  into  my  books.  I  called  upon 
my  intellect  to  defend,—  and  my  intellect  betrayed  me. 
For  suddenly  as  I  pored  over  my  scanty  books,  a  gigan¬ 
tic  discovery  in  science  gleamed  across  me.  I  saw  the 
means  of  effecting  a  vast  benefit  to  truth  and  to  man  — 


298 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


of  adding  a  new  conquest  to  that  only  empire  which  no 
fate  can  overthrow,  and  no  time  wear  away.  And  in  this 
discovery  I  was  stopped  by  the  total  inadequacy  of  my 
means.  The  books  and  implements  I  required  were  not 
within  my  reach  —  a  handful  of  gold  would  buy  them — • 
1  had  not  wherewithal  to  buy  bread  for  the  morrow’s 
meal.  In  my  solitude  and  misery,  this  discovery  haunted 
me  like  a  visible  form  —  it  smiled  upon  me  —  a  fiend  that 
took  the  aspect  of  beauty  —  it  wooed  me  to  its  charms 
that  it  might  lure  my  soul  into  its  fangs.  I  heard  it  mur¬ 
mur,  *  One  bold  deed  and  I  am  thine  !  Wilt  thou  lie 
down  in  the  ditch  and  die  the  dog’s  death,  or  hazard  thy 
life  for  the  means  that  may  serve  and  illumine  the  world  ? 
Shrinkest  thou  from  men’s  laws,  though  the  laws  bid  thee 
rot  on  their  outskirts  ?  Is  it  not  for  the  service  of  man 
that  thou  shouldst  for  once  break  the  law  on  behalf  of 
that  knowledge  from  which  all  laws  take  their  source  ? 
If  thou  wrongest  the  one,  thou  shalt  repay  it  in  boons  to 
the  million.  For  the  ill  of  an  hour,  thou  shalt  give  a 
blessing  to  ages  !  ’  So  spoke  to  me  the  tempter.  And 
one  day,  when  the  tempter  spoke  loudest,  Houseman  met 
me,  accompanied  by  a  stranger  who  had  just  visited  our 
town,  for  what  purpose  you  know  already.  His  name 
—  supposed  name  —  was  Clarke.  Man,  I  am  about  to 
speak  plainly  of  that  stranger — his  character  and  his  fate. 
And  yet  —  yet  you  are  his  son  !  I  would  fain  soften  the 
coloring ;  but  I  speak  truth  of  myself,  and  I  must  not, 
unless  I  would  blacken  my  name  yet  deeper  than  it  deserves, 
varnish  truth  when  I  speak  of  others.  Houseman  joined, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


239 


and  presented  to  me  this  person.  From  the  first  I  felt 
a  dislike  of  the  stranger,  which  indeed  it  was  easy  to 
account  for.  He  was  of  a  careless  and  somewhat  insolent 
maimer.  His  countenance  was  impressed  with  the  lines 
and  character  of  a  thousand  vices  :  you  read  in  the  brow 
aud  eye  the  history  of  a  sordid  yet  reckless  life.  His 
conversation  was  repellant  to  me  beyond  expression.  He 
uttered  the  meanest  sentiments,  and  he  chuckled  over 
them  as  the  maxims  of  a  superior  sagacity ;  he  avowred 
himself  a  knave  upon  system,  and  upon  the  lowest  scale. 
To  over-reach,  to  deceive,  to  elude,  to  shuffle,  to  fawn  and 
to  lie,  were  the  arts  to  which  he  confessed  with  so  naked 
and  cold  a  grossness,  that  one  perceived  that  in  the  long 
habits  of  debasement  he  wras  unconscious  of  what  was  not 
debased.  Houseman  seemed  to  draw  him  out :  Clarke 
told  us  anecdotes  of  his  rascality,  and  the  distresses  to 
which  it  had  brought  him  ;  and  he  finished  by  saying : 
‘Yet  you  see  me  now  almost  rich,  and  wholly  contented. 
I  have  always  been  the  luckiest  of  human  beings :  no 
matter  what  ill  chances  to-day,  good  turns  up  to-morrow. 
I  confess  that  I  bring  on  myself  the  ill,  and  Providence 
sends  me  the  good.’  We  met  accidentally  more  than  once, 
and  his  conversation  was  always  of  the  same  strain  —  his 
luck  and  his  rascality :  he  had  no  other  theme,  and  no 
other  boast.  And  did  not  this  aid  the  voice  of  the  tempter  ? 
W  as  it  not  an  ordination  that  called  upon  men  to  take 
fortune  in  their  own  hands,  when  Fate  lavished  her  rewards 
on  this  low  and  creeping  thing,  that  could  only  enter  even 
Vice  by  its  sewers  and  alleys?  Was  it  worth  while  t<p 
11  —  26 


300 


EUGENE  ARAM 


be  virtuous,  and  look  on,  while  the  bad  seized  upon  the 
feast  of  life  ?  This  man  was  but  moved  by  the  basest 
passions,  the  pettiest  desires :  he  gratified  them,  and  Fate 
smiled  upon  his  daring.  I,  who  had  shut  out  from  my 
heart  the  poor  temptations  of  sense  —  I,  who  fed  only 
the  most  glorious  visions,  the  most  august  desires  —  I, 
denied  myself  their  fruition,  trembling  and  spell-bound  in 
the  cerements  of  human  laws,  without  hope,  without  reward 
—  losing  the  very  powers  of  virtue  because  I  would  not 
stray  into  crime  ! 

“  These  thoughts  fell  on  me  darkly  and  rapidly  ;  but 
they  led  as  yet  to  no  result.  I  saw  nothing  beyond  them. 
I  suffered  my  indignation  to  gnaw  my  heart ;  and  preserved 
the  same  calm  and  serene  demeanor  which  had  grown 
with  my  growth  of  mind.  Strange  that  while  I  upbraided 
Fate,  I  did  not  cease  to  love  mankind.  I  coveted  — 
what  ?  the  power  to  serve  them.  I  had  been  kind  and 
loving  to  all  things  from  a  boy ;  there  was  not  a  dumb 
animal  that  would  not  single  me  from  a  crowd  as  its 
protector,*  and  yet  I  was  doomed — but  I  must  not  fore¬ 
stall  the  dread  catastrophe  of  my  life.  In  returning,  at 
night,  to  my  own  home,  from  my  long  and  solitary  walks, 

*  All  the  authentic  anecdotes  of  Aram  corroborate  the  fact  of  his 
natural  gentleness  to  all  things.  A  clergyman  (the  Rev.  Mr.  Hinton) 
said  that  he  used  frequently  to  observe  Aram,  when  walking  in  the 
garden,  stoop  down  to  remove  a  snail  or  worm  from  the  path,  to 
prevent  its  being  destroyed.  Mr.  Hinton  ingeniously  conjectured 
that  Aram  wished  to  atone  for  his  crime  by  showing  mercy  to  every 
animal  and  insect;  but  the  fact  is,  that  there  are  several  anecdotes 
to  show  that  he  was  equally  humane  before  the  crime  was  committed 
Such  are  the  strange  contradictions  of  the  human  heart. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


301 


J  often  passed  the  house  in  which  Clarke  lodged  ;  and 
sometimes  I  met  him  reeling  by  the  door,  insulting  all 
who  passed  ;  and  yet  their  resentment  was  absorbed  in 
their  disgust.  ‘And  this  loathsome  and  grovelling  thing,’ 
said  I,  inly,  ‘squanders  on  low  excesses,  wastes  upon  out¬ 
rages  to  society,  that  with  which  I  could  make  ray  soul  as 
a  burning  lamp,  that  should  shed  a  light  over  the  world  !’ 

“  There  was  that  in  the  man’s  vices  which  revolted  me 

t 

far  more  than  the  villany  of  Houseman.  The  latter  had 
possessed  few  advantages  of  education  :  he  descended  to 
no  minutiae  of  sin  ;  he  was  a  plain,  blunt,  coarse  WTetch, 
and  bis  sense  threw  something  respectable  around  his  vices. 
But  in  Clarke  you  saw  the  traces  of  happier  opportunities ; 
of  better  education  ;  it  was  in  him  not  the  coarseness  of 
manner  that  displeased,  it  was  the  lowness  of  sentiment 
that  sickened  me.  Had  Houseman  money  in  his  purse, 
he  would  have  paid  a  debt  and  relieved  a  friend,  from 
mere  indifference  ;  not  so  the  other.  Had  Clarke  been 
overflowing  with  wealth,  he  would  have  slipped  from  a 
creditor  and  duped  a  friend  ;  there  was  a  pitiful  cunning 
in  his  nature,  which  made  him  regard  the  lowest  meanness 
as  the  subtlest  wit.  His  mind,  too,  was  not  only  degra¬ 
ded,  but  broken  by  his  habits  of  life ;  he  had  the  laugh 
of  the  idiot  at  his  own  debasement.  Houseman  was 
young  ;  he  might  amend  ;  but  Clarke  had  grey  hairs  and 
dim  eyes  ;  was  old  in  constitution,  if  not  in  years  ;  and 
every  thing  in  him  was  hopeless  and  confirmed  ;  the  leprosy 
was  in  the  system.  Time,  in  this,  has  made  Houseman 
what  Clarke  was  then. 


302 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  One  da}’,  in  passing  through  the  street,  though  it  was 
broad  noon,  I  encountered  Clarke  in  a  state  of  intoxica¬ 
tion,  and  talking  to  a  crowd  he  had  collected  around  him. 
I  sought  to  pass  in  an  opposite  direction  ;  he  would  not 
suffer  me  ;  he,  whom  I  sickened  to  touch,  to  see,  threw 
himself  in  my  way,  and  affected  gibe  and  insult,  nay,  even 
threat.  But  wheu  he  came  near,  he  shrank  before  the 
mere  glance  of  my  eye,  and  I  passed  on,  unheeding  him. 
The  insult  galled  me;  he  had  taunted  my  poverty  — 
poverty  was  a  favorite  jest  with  him  ;  it  galled  me  :  anger  ? 
revenge  ?  no  !  those  passions  I  had  never  felt  for  any 
man.  I  could  not  rouse  them  for  the  first  time  at  such  a 
cause  ;  yet  I  was  lowered  in  my  own  eyes,  I  was  stung. 
Poverty  !  he  taunt  me!  I  wandered  from  the  town,  and 
paused  by  the  winding  and  shagged  banks  of  the  river. 
It  was  a  gloomy  winter’s  day,  the  waters  rolled  on  black 
and  sullen,  and  the  dry  leaves  rustled  desolately  beneath 
my  feet.  Who  shall  tell  us  that  outward  nature  has  no 
effect  upon  our  mood  ?  All  around  seemed  to  frown  upon 
my  lot.  I  read  in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth  a  confir¬ 
mation  of  the  curse  which  man  hath  set  upon  poverty.  I 
leaned  against  a  tree  that  overhung  the  waters,  and 
suffered  my  thoughts  to  glide  on  in  the  bitter  silence  of 
their  course.  I  heard  my  name  uttered — ■  I  felt  a  hand 
on  my  arm,  I  turned,  and  Houseman  was  by  my  side. 

“  ‘  What  1  moralizing  ?  ’  said  he,  with  his  rude  smile. 

“I  did  not  answer  him. 

“  *  Look,’  said  he,  pointing  to  the  waters, 1  where  yondei 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


302 


fish  lies  waiting  liis  prey, —  that  prey  his  kind.  Come, 
you  have  read  Nature  —  is  it  not  so  universally?’ 

“  Still  I  did  not  answer  him. 

“‘They  who  do  not  as  the  rest,’  he  renewed,  ‘fulfil 
not  the  object  of  their  existence  ;  they  seek  to  be  wiser 

than  their  tribe,  and  are  fools  for  their  pains.  Is  it  not 

% 

so  ?  I  am  a  plain  man,  and  would  learn.’ 

“  Still  I  did  not  answer. 

“‘You  are  silent,’  said  he:  ‘do  I  offend  you?’ 

“‘No!’ 

“‘Now,  then,’  he  continued,  ‘strange  as  it  may  seem, 
we,  so  different  in  mind,  are  at  this  moment  alike  in  fortunes. 
I  have  not  a  guinea  in  the  wide  world  ;  you,  perhaps, 
are  equally  destitute.  But  mark  the  difference.  I,  the 
ignorant  man,  ere  three  days  have  passed,  will  have  filled 
my  purse ;  you,  the  wise  man,  will  be  still  as  poor.  Come, 
cast  away  your  wisdom,  and  do  as  I  do.’ 

“  ‘  How  ?  ’ 

“  Take  from  the  superfluities  of  others  what  your  neces¬ 
sities  crave.  My  horse,  my  pistol,  a  ready  hand,  a  stout 
heart,  these  are  to  me  what  coffers  are  to  others.  There 
is  the  chance  of  detection  and  of  death  ;  I  allow  it ;  but 
is  not  this  chance  better  than  some  certainties?’ 

The  tempter  with  the  glorious  face  and  the  demon 
fangs  rose  again  before  me  —  and  spoke  in  the  Robber’s 
voice. 

“  ‘  Will  you  share  the  danger  and  the  booty  ?’  renewed 
Houseman,  in  a  low  voice. 

26  *  2n 


304 


EUGENE  ARAM 


*'  Speak  out,’  said  I;  ‘explain  your  purpose!’ 

“Houseman’s  looks  brightened. 

“  ‘  Listen  !  ’  said  he  ;  ‘  Clarke,  despite  his  present  wealth 
.awfully  gained,  is  about  to  purloin  more  ;  he  has  con¬ 
verted  his  legacy  into  jewels;  he  has  borrowed  other  jewels 
on  false  pretences  ;  he  intends  to  make  these  also  his  own, 
and  to  leave  the  town  in  the  dead  of  night ;  he  has  con¬ 
fided  to  me  his  purpose,  and  asked  my  aid.  He  and  I, 
be  it  known  to  you,  were  friends  of  old  ;  we  have  shared 
together  other  dangers  and  other  spoils.  Now  do  you 
guess  my  meaning  ?  Let  us  ease  him  of  his  burden  !  I 
offer  to  you  the  half ;  share  the  enterprise  and  its  fruits.’ 

“  I  rose,  I  walked  away,  I  pressed  my  hands  on  my 
heart.  Houseman  saw  the  conflict ;  he  followed  me  ;  he 
named  the  value  of  the  prize  he  proposed  to  gain  ;  that 
which  he  called  my  share  placed  all  my  wishes  within 
my  reach  !  —  Leisure,  independence, —  knowledge.  The 
sublime  Discovery  —  the  possession  of  the  glorious  Fiend. 
All,  all  within  my  grasp — and  by  a  single  deed  —  no 
frauds  oft  repeated  —  no  sins  long  continued  —  a  single 
deed  !  I  breathed  heavily  —  but  the  weight  still  lay  upon 
my  heart.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  shuddered  —  the  mortal 
shuddered,  but  still  the  demon  smiled. 

“‘Give  me  your  hand,’  said  Houseman. 

“‘No,  no,’  I  said,  breaking  away  from  him.  ‘I  must 
pause  —  I  must  consider  —  I  do  not  yet  refuse,  but  I  will 
not  now  decide.’ 

“  Houseman  pressed,  but  I  persevered  in  my  determi¬ 
nation  ; —  he  would  have  threatened  me,  but  my  nature 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


305 


was  haughtier  than  his,  and  I  subdued  him.  It  was  agreed 
that  he  should  seek  me  that  night  and  learn  my  choice  — 
the  next  night  was  the  one  on  which  the  robbery  was  to 
be  committed.  We  parted  —  I  returned  an  altered  man 
to  my  home.  Fate  had  woven  her  mesh  around  me-^a 
new  incident  had  occurred  which  strengthened  the  web : 
there  was  a  poor  girl  whom  I  had  been  accustomed  to  see 
in  my  walks.  She  supported  her  family  by  her  dexterity  in 
making  lace, — a  patient-looking,  gentle  creature.  Clarke 
had,  a  few  days  before,  under  pretence  of  purchasing  lace, 
decoyed  her  to  his  house  (when  all  but  himself  were  from 
home),  where  he  used  the  most  brutal  violence  towards 
her.  The  extreme  poverty  of  the  parents  had  enabled 
him  easily  to  persuade  them  to  hush  up  the  matter,  but 
something  of  the  story  got  abroad ;  the  poor  girl  was 
marked  out  for  that  gossip  and  scandal  which  among  the 
very  lowest  classes  are  as  coarse  in  the  expression  as 
malignant  in  the  sentiment ;  and  in  the  paroxysm  of  shame 
and  despair,  the  unfortunate  girl  had  that  day  destroyed 
herself.  This  melancholy  event  wrung  forth  from  the 
parents  the  real  story  :  the  event  and  the  story  reached 
my  ears  in  the  very  hour  in  which  my  mind  was  wravering 
to  and  fro.  ‘And  it  is  to  such  uses/  said  the  Tempter 
‘that  this  man  puts  his  gold!' 

“  Houseman  came,  punctual  to  our  dark  appointment. 
I  gave  him  my  hand  in  silence.  The  tragic  end  of  hi? 
victim,  and  the  indignation  it  caused,  made  Clarke  yet  more 
eager  to  leave  the  town.  He  had  settled  with  Houseman 
that  he  would  abscond  that  very  night,  not  wait  for  the 


506 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


next,  as  at  first  he  had  intended.  His  jewels  and  property 
were  put  in  a  small  compass.  He  had  arranged  that  he 
would,  towards  midnight  or  later,  quit  his  lodging ;  and 
about  a  mile  from  the  town,  Houseman  had  engaged  to 
"nave  a  chaise  in  readiness.  For  this  service  Clarke  had 
promised  Houseman  a  reward,  with  which  the  latter  ap¬ 
peared  contented.  It  was  agreed  that  I  should  meet 
Houseman  and  Clarke  at  a  certain  spot  in  their  way  from 
the  town.  Houseman  appeared  at  first  fearful,  lest  I 
should  relent  and  waver  in  my  purpose.  It  is  never  so 
with  men  whose  thoughts  are  deep  and  strong.  To  resolve 
was  the  arduous  step  — once  resolved,  and  I  cast  not  a 
look  behind.  Houseman  left  me  for  the  present.  I  could 
not  rest  in  my  chamber.  I  went  forth  and  walked  about 
the  town  :  the  night  deepened  —  I  saw  the  lights  in  each 
house  withdrawn,  one  by  one,  and  at  length  all  was  hushed  : 
• —  Silence  and  Sleep  kept  court  over  the  abodes  of  men. 
Nature’ never  seemed  to  me  to  make  so  dread  a  pause. 

“  The  moon  came  out,  but  with  a  pale  and  sickly  coun¬ 
tenance.  It  was  winter;  the  snow,  which  had  been  hilling 
towards  eve,  lay  deep  upon  the  ground  ;  and  the  frost 
seemed  to  lock  the  universal  nature  into  the  same  dread 
tranquillity  which  had  taken  possession  of  my  soul. 

“  Houseman  was  to  have  come  to  me  at  midnight,  just 
before  Clarke  left  his  house,  but  it  was  nearly  two  hours 
after  that  time  ere  he  arrived.  I  was  then  walking  to 
and  fro  before  my  own  door  ;  I  saw  that  he  was  not  alone, 
but  with  Clarke.  ‘Hal’  said  he,  ‘this  is  fortunate;  I 
see  you  are  just  going  home.  You  were  engaged,  I  reeol- 


EU3ENE  ARAM. 


307 


lect,  at  some  distance  from  the  town,  and  have,  I  suppose, 
just  returned.  Will  you  admit  Mr.  Clarke  and  myself 
for  a  short  time  ?  —  for  to  tell  you  the  truth,’  said  he,  in 
a  lower  voice — ‘  the  watchman  is  about,  and  we  must  not 
be  seen  by  him  !  I  have  told  Clarke  that  he  may  trust 
you, —  we  are  relatives  !  ’ 

“  Clarke,  who  seemed  strangely  credulous  and  indif¬ 
ferent,  considering  the  character  of  his  associate, —  but 
those  whom  Fate  destroys  she  first  blinds, —  made  the 
same  request  in  a  careless  tone,  assigning  the  same  cause. 
Unwillingly,  I  opened  the  door  and  admitted  them.  We 
went  up  to  my  chamber.  Clarke  spoke  with  the  utmost 
unconcern  of  the  fraud  he  purposed,  and  with  a  heart¬ 
lessness  that  made  my  veins  boil,  of  the  poor  wretch  his 
brutality  had  destroyed.  They  stayed  for  nearly  an  hour, 
for  the  watchman  remained  some  time  in  that  beat  —  and 
then  Houseman  asked  me  to  accompany  them  a  little  way 
out  of  the  town.  Clarke  seconded  the  request.  We 
walked  forth;  the  rest  —  why  need  I  tell?  —  I  cannot  — 
O  God,  I  cannot !  Houseman  lied  in  the  court.  I  did 
not  strike  the  blow  —  I  never  designed  a  murder.  Crime 
enough  in  a  robber’s  deed!  He  fell  —  he  grasped  my 
hand,  raised  not  to  strike  but  to  shield  him  !  Never  more 
has  the  right  hand  cursed  by  that  dying  clasp  been  given 
in  pledge  of  human  faith  and  friendship.  But  the  deed 
was  done,  and  the  robber’s  comrade,  in  the  eyes  of  man 
and  law,  was  the  murderer’s  accomplice. 

“  Houseman  divided  the  booty  :  my  share  he  buried  iu 
the  earth  leaving  me  to  withdraw  it  when  I  chose.  There, 


808 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


perhaps,  it  lies  still.  I  never  touched  what  I  had  mur 
dered  my  own  life  to  gain.  His  share,  by  the  aid  of  a 
gipsy  hag  with  whom  he  had  dealings,  Houseman  removed 
to  London.  And  now,  mark  what  poor  strugglers  \ve 
are  in  the  eternal  web  of  destiny  !  Three  days  after  that 
deed,  a  relation  who  neglected  me  in  life,  died,  and  left 
me  wealth!  —  wealth  at  least  to  me! — Wealth,  greater 

than  that  for  which  I  had . !  The  news  fell  on 

me  as  a  thunderbolt.  Had  I  waited  but  three  little  days  ! 
Just  Heaven  !  when  they  told  me,  I  thought  I  heard  the 
devils  laugh  out  at  the  fool  who  had  boasted  wisdom  ! 
Had  I  waited  but  three  days,  three  little  days  !  —  Had 
but  a  dream  been  sent  me,  had  but  my  heart  cried  within 
me, — ‘  Thou  hast  suffered  long,  tarry  yet !  ’*  No,  it  was 
for  this,  for  the  guilt  and  its  penance,  for  the  wasted  life 


*  Aram  has  hitherto  been  suffered  to  tell  his  own  tale  without 
comment  or  interruption.  The  chain  of  reasonings,  the  metaphy¬ 
sical  labyrinth  of  defence  and  motive,  which  he  wrought  around  his 
guilt,  it  was,  in  justice  to  him,  necessary  to  give  at  length,  in  order 
io  throw  a  clearer  light  on  his  character  —  and  lighten,  perhaps, 
in  some  measure,  the  colors  of  his  crime.  No  moral  can  be  more 
impressive  than  that  which  teaches  how  man  can  entangle  himself 
in  his  own  sophisms  —  that  moral  is  better,  viewed  aright,  than 
volumes  of  homilies.  But  here  I  must  pause  for  one  moment,  to 
bid  the  reader  remark,  that  that  event  which  confirmed  Aram,  in 
the  bewildering  doctrines  of  his  pernicious  fatalism,  ought  rather 
to  inculcate  the  divine  virtue — the  foundation  of  all  virtues,  Heathen 
or  Christian  —  that  which  Epictetus  made  clear,  and  Christ  sacred 
— Fortitude.  The  reader  will  note,  that  the  answer  to  the  reason¬ 
ings  that  probably  convinced  the  mind  of  Aram,  and  blinded  him  to 
his  crime,  may  be  found  in  the  change  of  feelings  by  which  the 
crime  was  followed.  I  must  apologize  for  this  interruption  -  -ii 
seemed  to  me  advisable  in  this  place. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


309 


and  the  shameful  death  — with  all  my  thirst  for  good,  my 
dreams  of  glory  —  that  I  was  born,  that  I  was  marked 
from  my  first  sleep  in  the  cradle  ! 

“  The  disappearence  of  Clarke  of  course  created  great 
excitement;  those  whom  he  had  over-reached  had  natu¬ 
rally  an  interest  in  discovering  him.  Some  vague  sur¬ 
mises  that  he  might  have  been  made  away  with  were 
rumored  abroad.  Houseman  and  I,  owing  to  some  con¬ 
currence  of  circumstance,  were  examined, —  not  that  sus 
picion  attached  to  me  before  or  after  the  examination. 
That  ceremony  ended  in  nothing.  Houseman  did  not 
betray  himself ;  and  I,  who  from  a  boy  had  mastered  my 
passions,  could  master  also  the  nerves,  by  which  passions 
are  betrayed  :  but  I  read  in  the  face  of  the  woman  with 
whom  I  lodged  that  I  was  suspected.  Houseman  told 
me  that  she  had  openly  expressed  her  suspicion  to  him  ; 
nay,  he  entertained  some  design  against  her  life,  which 
he  naturally  abandoned  on  quitting  the  town.  This  he 
did  soon  afterwards.  I  did  not  linger  long  behind  him. 
I  received  my  legacy,  and  departed  on  foot  to  Scotland. 
And  now  I  was  above  wrnnt  —  was  I  at  rest?  Not  yet. 
I  felt  urged  on  to  wander  —  Cain’s  curse  descends  to 
Cain’s  children.  I  travelled  for  some  considerable  time, 
—  I  saw  men  and  cities,  and  I  opened  a  new  volume  in 
my  kind.  It  was  strange  ;  but  before  the  deed,  I  was 
as  a  child  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  a  child,  despite 
my  knowledge,  might  have  duped  me.  The  moment  after 
it,  a  light  broke  upon  me, —  it  seemed  as  if  my  eyes  were 
touched  with  a  charm,  and  rendered  capable  of  piercing 


310 


EUGENE  ARAM 


the  hearts  of  men  !  Yes,  it  was  a  charm, —  a  new  charm 
—  it  was  Suspicion  !  I  now  practised  myself  in  the  use 
of  arms, —  they  made  my  sole  companions.  Peaceful  as 
I  seemed  to  the  world,  I  felt  there  was  that  eternally  within 
me  with  which  the  world  was  at  war. 

“And  what  became  of  the  superb  ambition  which  had 
undone  me  ?  Where  vanished  that  Grand  Discovery 
which  was  to  benefit  the  world  ?  The  ambition  died  in 
remorse,  and  the  vessel  that  should  have  borne  me  to  the 
far  Land  of  Science,  lay  rotting  piecemeal  on  a  sea  of 
blood.  The  Past  destroyed  my  old  heritage  in  the  Future. 
The  consciousness  that  at  any  hour,  in  the  possession  of 
honors,  by  the  hearth  of  love,  I  might  be  dragged  forth 
and  proclaimed  a  murderer  ;  that  I  held  my  life,  my  repu¬ 
tation,  at  the  breath  of  accident ;  that  in  the  moment  I 
least  dreamed  of,  the  earth  might  yield  its  dead,  and  the 
gibbet  demand  its  victim  : — this  could  I  feel  —  all  this — ■ 
and  not  see  a  spectre  in  the  place  of  science  ?  —  a  spectre 
that  walked  by  my  side,  that  slept  in  my  bed,  that  rose 
from  my  books,  that  glided  between  me  and  the  stars  of 
heaven,  that  stole  along  the  flowers,  and  withered  their 
sweet  breath  ;  that  whispered  in  my  ear,  ‘  Toil,  fool,  and 
be  wise  ;  the  gift  of  Wisdom  is  to  place  us  above  the 
reach  of  fortune,  but  thou  art  her  veriest  minion  ! 7  Yes; 
I  paused  at  last  from  my  wanderings,  and  surrounded 
myself  with  books,  and  knowledge  became  once  more  to 
me  what  it  had  been,  a  thirst ;  but  not  what  it  had  been, 
a  reward.  I  occupied  my  thoughts,  I  laid  up  new  hoards 
within  my  mind,  I  looked  around,  and  I  saw  few  whose 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


81 1 


stores  were  like  my  own  ; — but  gone  for  ever  the  sublime 
desire  of  applying  wisdom  to  the  service  of  mankind  ! 
Mankind  had  grown  my  foes.  I  looked  upon  them  with 
other  eyes.  I  knew  that  I  carried  within  me  that  secret 
which,  if  bared  to  day,  would  make  them  loathe  and  hate 
me, — yea,  though  I  coined  my  future  life  into  one  series  of 
benefits  to  them  and  their  posterity  !  Was  not  this  thought 
enough  to  quell  my  ardor  —  to  chill  activity  into  rest? 
The  brighter  the  honors  I  might  win  —  the  greater  the 
services  I  might  bestow  on  the  world,  the  more  dread  and 
fearful  might  be  my  fall  at  last !  I  might  be  but  piling 
up  the  scaffold  from  which  I  was  to  be  hurled  !  Possessed 
by  these  thoughts,  a  new  view  of  human  affairs  succeeded 
to  my  old  aspirings: — the  moment  a  man  feels  that  an 
object  has  ceased  to  charm,  his  reasonings  reconcile  him¬ 
self  to  his  loss.  ‘  Why,’  said  I ;  ‘  why  flatter  myself  that 
I  can  serve,  that  I  can  enlighten  mankind  ?  Are  we  fully 
sure  that  individual  wisdom  has  ever,  in  reality,  done  so  ? 
Are  we  really  better  because  Newton  lived,  and  happier 
because  Bacon  thought  ?  ’  These  freezing  reflections 
pleased  the  present  state  of  my  mind  more  than  the  warm 
and  yearning  enthusiasm  it  had  formerly  nourished.  Mere 
worldly  ambition  from  a  boy  I  had  disdained  ; — the  true 
worth  of  sceptres  and  crowns,  the  disquietude  of  power, 
the  humiliations  of  vanity  had  never  been  disguised  from 
ray  sight.  Intellectual  ambition  had  inspired  me.  I  now 
regarded  it  equally  as  a  delusion.  I  coveted  light  solely 
foi  my  own  soul  to  bathe  in. 

“  Rest  now  became  to  me  the  sole  to  kalon,  the  sole 
II  -27 


312 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


charm  of  existence.  I  grew  enamoured  of  the  doctrine  of 
those  old  mystics  who  have  placed  happiness  only  in  an 
even  and  balanced  quietude.  And  where  but  in  utter 
loneliness  was  that  quietude  to  be  enjoyed  ?  I  no  longer 
wondered  that  men  in  former  times,  when  consumed  by 
the  recollection  of  some  haunting  guilt,  fled  to  the  desert 
and  became  hermits.  Tranquillity  and  solitude  are  the 
only  soothers  of  a  memory  deeply  troubled  —  light  griefs 
fly  to  the  crowd,  fierce  thoughts  must  battle  themselves 
to  rest.  Many  years  had  flown,  and  I  had  made  my  home 
in  many  places.  All  that  was  turbulent,  if  not  all  that 
was  unquiet,  in  my  recollections,  had  died  away.  Time 
had  lulled  me  into  a  sense  of  security.  I  breathed  more 
freely.  I  sometimes  stole  from  the  past.  Since  I  had 
quitted  Knaresbro’  chanee  had  often  thrown  it  in  my 
power  to  serve  my  brethren  —  not  by  wisdom,  but  by 
charity  or  courage  —  by  individual  acts  that  it  soothed 
me  to  remember.  If  the  grand  aim  of  enlightening  a  world 
was  gone,  if  to  so  enlarged  a  benevolence  had  succeeded 
apathy  or  despair,  still  the  man,  the  human  man,  clung 
to  my  heart ;  still  was  I  as  prone  to  pity,  as  prompt  to 
defend,  as  glad  to  cheer,  whenever  the  vicissitudes  of  life 
afforded  me  the  occasion,  and  to  poverty,  most  of  all,  my 
hand  never  closed.  For  oh  !  what  a  terrible  devil  creeps 
into  that  man’s  soul  who  sees  famine  at  his  door  !  One 
tender  act,  and  how  many  black  designs,  struggling  into  life 

within,  you  may  crush  for  ever !  He  who  deems  the 

* 

world  his  foe, —  convince  Mm  that  he  has  one  friend,  aDd 
it  is  like  snatching  a  dagger  from  his  hand  ! 


I 


813 


EUGENE  ARAM 

“  I  came  to  a  beautiful  and  remote  part  of  the  country. 

Walter  Lester,  I  came  to  Grassdale  ! —  the  enchanting 
scenery  around,  the  sequestered  and  deep  retirement  of 
the  place,  arrested  me  at  once.  ‘And  among  these  val¬ 
leys,’  I  said,  ‘will  I  linger  out  the  rest  of  my  life,  and 
among  these  quiet  graves* shall  mine  be  dug,  and  mj 
secret  shall  die  with  me  1 f 

“  I  rented  the  lonely  house  in  which  I  dwelt  when  you 
first  knew  me  ;  thither  T  transported  my  books  and  instru¬ 
ments  of  scieuce,  and  a  deep  quiet,  almost  amounting  to 
content,  fell  like  a  sweet  sleep  upon  my  soul  1 

“In  this  state  of  mind,  the  most  free  from  memory 
that  I  had  known  for  twelve  years,  I  first  saw  Madeline 
Lester.  Even  with  that  first  time  a  sudden  and  heavenly 
light  seemed  to  dawn  upon  me.  Her  face  —  its  still,  its 
serene,  its  touching  beauty  —  shone  down  on  my  desola-  • 

tion  like  a  dream  of  mercy  —  like  a  hope  of  pardon.  My 
heart  warmed  as  I  beheld  it,  my  pulse  woke  from  its  even 
slowness.  I  was  young  once  more.  Young!  the  youth, 
the  freshness,  the  ardor —  not  of  the  frame  only,  but  of 
the  soul.  But  I  then  only  saw,  or  spoke  to  her  —  scarce 
knew  her  —  not  loved  her  —  nor  was  it  often  that  we  met. 

The  south  wind  stirred  the  dark  waters  of  my  mind,  but 
it  passed,  and  all  became  hushed  again.  It  was  not  for 
two  years  from  the  time  we  first  saw  each  other,  that 
accident  brought  us  closely  together.  I  pass  over  the 
rest  We  loved  !  Yet,  oh  what  struggles  were  mine 
during  the  progress  of  that  love  !  How  unnatural  did 
it  seem  to  me  to  yield  to  a  passion  that  united  me  with 


314 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


my  kind ;  and  as  I  loved  her  more,  how  far  more  torturing 
grew  my  fear  of  the  future  !  That  which  had  almost 
slept  before  awoke  again  to  terrible  life.  The  soil  that 
covered  the  past  might  be  riven,  the  dead  awake,  and  that 
ghastly  chasm  separate  me  for  ever  from  her  !  What  a 
doom,  too,  might  I  bring  upon  that  breast  which  had 
begun  so  confidingly  to  love  me  !  Often — often  I  resolved 
to  fly  —  to  forsake  her  —  to  seek  some  desert  spot  in  the 
distant  parts  of  the  world,  and  never  to  be  betrayed 
again  into  human  emotions  !  But  as  the  bird  flutters  in 
the  net,  as  the  hare  doubles  from  its  pursuers,  I  did  but 
wrestle,  I  did  but  trifle,  with  an  irresistible  doom.  Mark 
how  strange  are  the  coincidences  of  Fate  —  Fate  that 
gives  us  warnings,  and  takes  away  the  power  to  obey 
them  —  the  idle  prophetess,  the  juggling  fiend  !  On  the 
same  evening  that  brought  me  acquainted  with  Madeline 
Lester,  Houseman,  led  by  schemes  of  fraud  and  violence 
into  that  part  of  the  country,  discovered  and  sought  me  ! 
Imagine  my  feelings,  when  in  the  hush  of  night  I  opened 
the  door  of  my  lonely  home  to  his  summons,  and  by  the 
light  of  that  moon  which  had  witnessed  so  never-to-be- 
forgotten  a  companionship  between  us,  beheld  my  accom¬ 
plice  in  murder  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years.  Time 
and  a  course  of  vice  had  changed,  and  hardened,  and 
lowered  his  nature  :  and  in  the  power, —  at  the  will  —  of 
that  nature,  I  beheld  myself  abruptly  placed.  He  passed 
that  night  under  my  roof.  He  was  poor.  I  gave  him 
what  was  in  my  hands.  He  promised  to  leave  that  part 
of  England  —  to  seek  me  no  more. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


315 


“The  next  day  I  could  not  bear  my  own  thoughts,  the 
revulsion  was  too  sudden,  too  full  of  turbulent,  fierce, 
torturing  emotions  ;  I  fled  for  a  short  relief  to  the  house 
to  which  Madeline’s  father  had  invited  me.  But  in  vain 
I  sought,  by  wine,  by  converse,  by  human  voices,  human 
kindness,  to  fly  the  ghost  that  had  been  raised  from  the 
grave  of  time.  I  soon  returned  to  my  own  thoughts. 
I  resolved  to  wrap  myself  once  more  in  the  solitude  of 
my  heart.  But  let  me  not  repeat  what  I  have  said  before, 
somewhat  prematurely,  in  my  narrative.  I  resolved  —  I 
struggled  in  vain  :  Fate  had  ordained  that  the  sweet  life 
of  Madeline  Lester  should  wither  beneath  the  poison-tree 
of  mine.  Houseman  sought  me  again  ;  and  now  came 
on  the  humbling  part  of  crime,  its  low  calculations,  its 
poor  defence,  its  paltry  trickery,  its  mean  hypocrisy  ! 
They  made  my  chiefest  penance  !  I  was  to  evade,  to 
beguile,  to  buy  into  silence,  this  rude  and  despised  ruffian. 
No  matter  now  to  repeat  how  this  task  was  fulfilled  :  I 
surrendered  nearly  my  all  on  condition  of  his  leaving 
England  for  ever :  pot  till  I  thought  that  condition  already 
fulfilled,  till  the  day  had  passed  on  which  he  should  have 
left  England,  did  I  consent  to  allow  Madeline’s  fate  to 
be  irrevocably  woven  with  mine. 

“  How  often,  when  the  soul  sins,  are  her  loftiest  feelings 
punished  through  her  lowest !  To  me,  lone,  rapt,  for 
ever  on  the  wing  to  unearthly  speculation,  galling  and 
humbling  was  it,  indeed,  to  be  suddenly  called  from  the 
eminence  of  thought,  to  barter,  in  pounds  and  pence,  for 
life,  and  with  one  like  Houseman  !  Theie  are  the  curses 
27* 


316 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


that  deepen  the  tragedy  of  life,  by  grinding  down  out 
pride.  But  I  wander  back  to  what  I  have  before  said. 
1  was  to  marry  Madeline, —  I  was  once  more  poor,  but 
want  did  not  rise  before  me ;  I  had  succeeded  in  obtain¬ 
ing  the  promise  of  a  competence  from  one  whom  you 
know.  For  that  which  I  had  once  sought  to  force  from 
my  kind,  I  asked  now,  not  with  the  spirit  of  the  beggar, 
but  of  the  just  claimant,  and  in  that  spirit  it  was  granted. 
And  now  I  was  really  happy  ;  Houseman  I  believed 
removed  for  ever  from  my  path  ;  Madeline  was  about  to 
be  mine  :  I  surrendered  myself  to  love,  and,  blind  and 
deluded,  I  wandered  on,  and  awoke  on  the  brink  of  that 
precipice  into  which  I  am  about  to  plunge.  You  know 
the  rest.  But  oh  !  what  now  was  my  horror  !  It  had 
not  been  a  mere  worthless,  isolated  unit  in  creation  that 
I  had  seen  blotted  out  of  the  sum  of  life. —  The  murder 
done  in  my  presence,  and  of  which  Law  would  deem  me 
the  accomplice,  had  been  done  upon  the  brother  of  him 
whose  child  was  my  betrothed  !  Mysterious  avenger  — 
relentless  Fate  !  How,  when  I  deemed  myself  the  farthest 
from  her,  had  I  been  sinking  into  her  grasp  !  How  incal¬ 
culable —  how  measureless  —  how  viewless  the  consequen¬ 
ces  of  one  crime,  even  when  we  think  we  have  weighed 
them  all  with  scales  that  would  have  turned  with  a  hair’s 
weight!  Hear  me  —  as  the  voice  of  a  man  who  is  on  the 
brink  of  a  world,  the  awful  nature  of  which  reason  cannot 
pierce — hear  me  !  when  your  heart  tempts  to  some  wander¬ 
ing  from  the  line  allotted  to  the  rest  of  men,  and  whis¬ 
pers,  *  This  may  be  crime  in  others,  but  it  is  not  so  in 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


311 

thee  ;  or,  it  is  but  one  misdeed,  it  shall  entail  no  other,’ 

—  tremble  ;  cling  fast,  fast  to  the  path  you  are  lured  to 
leave.  Remember  me  ! 

“  But  in  this  state  of  mind  I  was  yet  forced  to  play 
the  hypocrite.  Had  I  been  alone  in  the  world  —  had 
Madeline  and  Lester  not  been  to  me  what  they  were,  I 
might  have  disproved  the  charge  of  fellowship  in  murder 

—  1  might  have  wrung  from  the  pale  lips  of  Houseman 
the  actual  truth  —  but  though  I  might  clear  myself  as  the 
murderer,  I  must  condemn  myself  as  the  robber  —  and 
in  avowal  of  that  lesser  guilt,  though  Itnight  have  lessened 
the  abhorrence  of  others,  I  should  have  inflicted  a.  blow, 
worse  than  that  of  my  death  itself,  on  the  hearts  of  those 
who  deemed  me  sinless  as  themselves.  Their  eyes  were 
on  me  ;  their  lives  were  set  on  my  complete  acquittal,  less 
even  of  life  than  honor; — my  struggle  against  truth  was 
less  for  myself  than  them.  My  defence  fulfilled  its  end  : 
Madeline  died  without  distrusting  the  innocence  of  him 
she  loved.  Lester,  unless  you  betray  me,  will  die  in  the 
same  belief.  In  truth,  since  the  arts  of  hypocrisy  have 
been  commenced,  the  pride  of  consistency  would  have 
made  it  sweet  to  me  to  leave  the  world  in  a  like  error, 
or  at  least  in  doubt.  For  you  I  conquer  that  desire,  the 
proud  man’s  last  frailty.  And  now  my  tale  is  done. 
From  what  passes  at  this  instant  wdthin  my  heart,  I  lift 
not  the  veil !  Whether  beneath  be  despair,  or  hope,  or 
fiery  emotions,  or  one  settled  and  ominous  calm,  matters 
not.  My  last  hours  shall  not  belie  my  life :  on  the  verge 
of  death  I  will  not  play  the  dastard,  and  tremble  at  the 


318 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Dim  Unkown.  Perhaps  I  am  not  without  hope  that  the 
Great  and  Unseen  Spirit,  whose  emanation  within  me  I 
have  nursed  and  worshipped,  though  erringly  and  in  vain, 
may  see  in  his  fallen  creature  one  bewildered  by  his  reason 
rather  than  yielding  to  his  vices.  The  guide  I  received 
from  heaven  betrayed  me,  and  I  was  lost ;  but  I  have  not 
plunged  wittingly  from  crime  to  crime.  Against  one 
guilty  deed,  some  good,  and  much  suffering,  may  be  set; 
and  dim  and  afar  off  from  my  allotted  bourn,  I  may 
behold  in  her  glorious  home  the  face  of  her  who  taught 
me  to  love,  and  who,  even  there,  could  scarce  be  blessed 
without  shedding  the  light  of  her  divine  forgiveness  upon 
me.  Enough  !  ere  you  break  this  seal,  my  doom  rests 
not  with  man  nor  earth.  The  burning  desires  I  have 
known  —  the  resplendent  visions  I  have  nursed  —  the 
sublime  aspirings  that  have  lifted  me  so  often  from  sense 
and  clay, —  these  tell  me,  that,  whether  for  good  or  ill,  I 
am  the  thing  of  an  Immortality,  and  the  creature  of  a 
God  1  As  men  of  the  old  wisdom  drew  their  garments 
around  their  face,  and  sat  down  collectedly  to  die,  I  wrap 
myself  in  the  settled  resignation  of  a  soul  firm  to  the  last, 
and  taking  not  from  man’s  vengeance  even  the  method 
of  its  dismissal.  The  courses  of  my  life  I  swayed  with 
my  own  hand  ;  from  my  own  hand  shall  come  the  manner 
and  moment  of  my  death  ! 

“  Eugene  Aram. 

“August,  1759.” 

i 

On  the  day  after  that  evening  in  which  Aram  had  giver, 
the  above  confession  to  Walter  Lester  —  on  the  day  of 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


319 


execution,  when  they  entered  the  condemned  cell,  they 
found  the  prisoner  lying  on  the  bed  ;  and  when  they 
approached  to  take  off  the  irons,  they  found  that  he 
neither  stirred  nor  answered  to  their  call.  They  attempted 
to  raise  him,  and  he  then  uttered  some  words  in  a  faint 
voice.  They  perceived  that  he  was  covered  with  blood. 
He  had  opened  his  veins  in  two  places  in  the  arm  with 
a  sharp  instrument  which  he  had  contrived  to  conceal. 
A  surgeon  was  instantly  sent  for,  and  by  the  customary 
applications  the  prisoner  in  some  measure  was  brought 
to  himself.  Resolved  not  to  defraud  the  law  of  its  victim, 
they  bore  him,  though  he  appeared  unconscious  of  all 
around,  to  the  fatal  spot.  But  when  he  arrived  at  that 
dread  place,  his  sense  suddenly  seemed  to  return.  He 
looked  hastily  round  the  throng  that  swayed  and  murmured 
below,  and  a  faint  flush  rose  to  his  cheek :  he  cast  his 
eyes  impatiently  above,  and  breathed  hard  and  convul¬ 
sively.  The  dire  preparations  were  made,  completed  ; 
but  the  prisoner  drew  back  for  an  instant, —  was  it  from 
mortal  fear?  He  motioned  to  the  clergyman  to  approach, 
as  if  about  to  whisper  some  last  request  in  his  ear.  The 
clergyman  bowed  his  head, —  there  was  a  minute’s  awful 
pause  —  Aram  seemed  to  struggle  as  for  words,  when, 
suddenly  throwing  himself  back,  a  bright  triumphant 
smile  flashed  over  his  whole  face.  With  that  smile  the 
haughty  spirit  passed  away,  and  the  law’s  last  indignity 

was  wreaked  upon  a  breathless  corpse  1 

2o 


* 


Q1 


20 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  Y 1 1 1.  AND  LAST, 

THE  TRAVELLER’S  RETURN. — THE  COUNTRY  VILLAGE  ONCE 
MORE  VISITED.  —  ITS  INHABITANTS.  —  THE  REMEMBERED 
BROOK. — THE  DESERTED  MANOR-HOUSE. —THE  CHURCH¬ 
YARD. —  THE  TRAVELLER  RESUMES  HIS  JOURNEY. - THE 

COUNTRY  TOWN. — A  MEETING  OF  TWO  LOVERS  AFTER  LONG 
ABSENCE  AND  MUCH  SORROW. —  CONCLUSION. 


“  The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again, 

Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and  flower ; 

The  sorriest  wight  may  find  release  from  pain, 

The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moistening  shower : 

Time  goes  by  turns,  and  chances  change  by  course 
From  foul  to  fair.” —  Robert  Southwell. 

Sometimes,  towards  the  end  of  a  gloomy  day,  the  sun, 
before  but  dimly  visible,  breaks  suddenly  out,  and  where 
before  you  had  noticed  only  the  sterner  outline  of  the 
mountains,  you  turn  with  relief  to  the  lowlier  features  of 
the  vale.  So  in  this  record  of  crime  and  sorrow,  the  ray 
that  breaks  forth  at  the  close,  brings  into  gentle  light 
the  shapes  which  the  earlier  darkness  had  obscured. 

It  was  some  years  after  the  date  of  the  last  event  we 
have  recorded,  and  it  was  a  fine  warm  noon  in  the  happy 
month  of  May,  when  a  horseman  rode  slowly  through  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


321 


long,  straggling  village  of  Grassdale.  lie  was  a  man. 
though  in  the  prime  of  youth  (for  he  might  yet  want 
some  two  years  of  thirty),  who  bore  the  steady  and  earn¬ 
est  air  of  one  who  has  wrestled  the  world  ;  his  eye  keen 
but  tranquil ;  his  sun-burnt  though  handsome  features, 
which  thought,  or  care,  had  despoiled  of  the  roundness 
of  their  early  contour,  leaving  the  cheek  somewhat 
sunken,  and  the  lines  somewhat  marked,  were  character¬ 
ized  by  a  grave,  and  at  that  moment  by  a  melancholy 
and  soft  expression  ;  and  now,  as  his  horse  proceeded 
slowly  through  the  green  lane,  which  at  every  vista  gave 
glimpses  of  rich  verdant  valleys,  the  sparkling  river,  or 
the  orchard  ripe  with  the  fragrant  blossoms  of  spring,  his 
head  drooped  upon  his  breast,  and  the  tears  started  to  bis 
eyes.  The  dress  of  the  horseman  was  of  foreign  fashion, 
and  at  that  day,  when  the  garb  still  denoted  the  calling, 
sufficiently  military  to  show  the  profession  he  had  belonged 
to.  And  well  did  the  garb  become  the  short  dark  mous¬ 
tache,  the  sinewy  chest,  and  length  of  limb,  of  the  young 
horseman  :  the  recommendations,  the  two  latter,  not 
despised  in  the  court  of  the  great  Frederic  of  Prussia,  in 
whose  service  he  had  borne  arms.  He  had  commenced 
his  career  in  that  battle  terminating  in  the  signal  defeat 
of  the  bold  Daun,  when  the  fortunes  of  that  gallant  general 
paled  at  last  before  the  star  of  the  greatest  of  modern 
kings.  The  peace  of  1763  had  left  Prussia  in  the  quiet 
enjoyment  of  the  glory  she  had  obtained,  and  the  young 
Englishman  took  the  advantage  it  afforded  him  of  seeing, 
as  a  traveller,  not  despoiler,  the  rest  of  Europe. 


322 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  adventure  and  the  excitement  of  travel  pleased,  and 
left  him  even  now  uncertain  whether  or  not  his  present 
return  to  England  would  be  for  long.  He  had  not  been 
a  week  returned,  and  to  this  part  of  his  native  country 
he  had  hastened  at  once. 

He  checked  his  horse  as  he  now  passed  the  memorable 
sign  that  yet  swung  before  the  door  of  Peter  Dealtry ; 
and  there,  under  the  shade  of  the  broad  tree,  now  budding 
into  all  its  tenderest  verdure,  a  pedestrian  wayfarer  sat 
enjoying  the  rest  and  coolness  of  his  shelter.  Our  horse¬ 
man  cast  a  look  at  the  open  door,  across  which,  in  the 
bustle  of  housewifery,  female  forms  now  and  then  glanced 
and  vanished,  and  presently  he  saw  Peter  himself  saunter 
forth  to  chat  with  the  traveller  beneath  his  tree.  And 
Peter  Dealtry  was  the  same  as  ever,  only  he  seemed  per¬ 
haps  shorter  and  thinner  than  of  old,  as  if  Time  did  not 
so  much  break  as  gradually  wear  away  mine  host’s  slender 
person. 

The  horseman  gazed  for  a  moment,  but  observing  Peter 
return  the  gaze,  he  turned  aside  his  head,  and,  putting 
his  horse  into  a  canter,  soon  passed  out  of  cognizance  of 
The  Spotted  Dog. 

He  now  came  in  sight  of  the  neat  white  cottage  of  the 
old  corporal ;  and  there,  leaning  over  the  pale,  a  crutch 
under  one  arm,  and  his  friendly  pipe  in  one  corner  of  his 
shrewd  mouth,  was  the  corporal  himself.  Perched  upon 
the  railing  in  a  semi-doze,  the  ears  down,  the  eyes  closed, 
sat  a  large  brown  cat :  poor  Jacobina,  it  was  not  thyself ! 
death  spares  neither  cat  nor  king ;  but  thy  virtues  lived 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


323 


in  thy  grandchild  ;  and  thy  grandchild  (as  age  brings 
dotage)  was  loved  even  more  than  thee  by  the  worthy 
corporal.  Long  may  thy  race  flourish  !  for  at  this  day 
it  is  not  extinct.  Nature  rarely  inflicts  barrenness  on  the 
feline  tribe  ;  they  are  essentially  made  for  love,  and  love’s 
soft  cares ;  and  a  cat’s  lineage  outlives  the  lineage  of 
kaisars  I 

At  the  sound  of  hoofs,  the  corporal  turned  his  head, 
and  he  looked  long  and  wistfully  at  the  horseman,  as, 
relaxing  his  horse’s  pace  into  a  walk,  our  traveller  rode 
slowly  on. 

“’Fore  George,”  muttered  the  corporal,  “a  fine  man 
—  a  very  fine  man,  ’bout  my  inches  —  augh  !  ” 

A  smile,  but  a  very  faint  smile,  crossed  the  lip  of  the 
horseman,  as  he 'gazed  on  the  figure  of  the  stalwart  cor¬ 
poral. 

“He  eyes  me  hard,”  thought  he;  “yet  he  does  not 
seem  to  remember  me.  I  must  be  greatly  changed.  ’Tis 
fortunate,  however,  that  I  am  not  recognized  :  fain,  indeed, 
at  this  time,  would  I  come  and  go  unnoticed  and  alone.” 

The  horseman  fell  into  a  reverie,  which  was  broken  by 
the  murmur  of  the  sunny  rivulet,  fretting  over  each  little 
obstacle  it  met, —  the  happy  and  spoiled  child  of  Nature  ! 
That  murmur  rang  on  the  horseman’s  ear  like  a  voice 
from  his  boyhood  ;  how  familiar  was  it,  how  dear  1  No 
haunting  tone  of  music  ever  recalled  so  rushing  a  host  of 
memories  and  associations,  as  that  simple,  restless,  ever¬ 
lasting  sound!  Everlasting! — all  had  changed,— the 
trees  had  sprung  up  or  decayed  —  some  cottages  around 
II.— 28 


324 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


were  ruins, —  some  new  and  unfamiliar  ones  supplied  their 
place;  and  on  the  stranger  himself — on  all  those  whom 
the  sound  recalled  to  his  heart  —  Time  had  been,  indeed, 
at  work  ;  but,  with  the  same  exulting  bound  and  happy 
voice,  that  little  brook  leaped  along  its  way.  Ages  hence, 
may  the  course  be  as  glad,  and  the  murmur  as  full  of 
mirth  !  They  are  blessed  things,  those  remote  and  un¬ 
changing  streams  !  —  they  fill  us  with  the  same  love  as  if 
they  were  living  creatures  1  —  and  in  a  green  corner  of 
the  world  there  is  one,  that,  for  my  part,  I  never  see  with¬ 
out  forgetting  myself  to  tears  —  tears  that  I  would  not 
lose  for  a  king’s  ransom  ;  tears  that  no  other  sight  or 
sound  could  call  from  their  source  ;  tears  of  what  affection, 
what  soft  regret ;  tears  through  the  soft  mists  of  which  1 
behold  what  I  have  lost  on  earth  and  hope  to  regain  in 
heaven  ! 

The  traveller,  after  a  brief  pause;  continued  his  road  ; 
and  now  he  came  full  upon  the  old  manor-house.  The 
weeds  were  grown  up  in  the  garden,  the  mossed  paling 
was  broken  in  many  places,  the  house  itself  was  shut  up, 
and  the  sun  glanced  on  the  deep-sunk  casements,  without 
finding  its  way  into  the  desolate  interior.  High  above 
the  old  hospitable  gate  hung  a  board,  announcing  that 
the  house  was  for  sale,  and  referring  the  curious  or  the 
speculating  to  the  attorney  of  the  neighbouring  town. 
The  horseman  sighed  heavily,  and  muttered  to  himself ; 
then,  turning  up  the  road  that  led  to  the  back  entrance, 
he  came  intc  the  court-yard,  and,  leading  his  horse  into 
an  empty  stable,  he  proceeded  on  foot  through  the  dis« 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


32f. 

mantled  premises,  pausing  with  every  moment,  and  hold¬ 
ing  a  sad  and  ever-changing  commune  with  himself.  An 
old  woman,  a  stranger  to  him,  was  the  sole  inmate  of 
the  house ;  and,  imagining  he  came  to  buy,  or,  at  least, 
examine,  she  conducted  him  through  the  house,  pointing 
out  its  advantages,  and  lamenting  its  dilapidated  state 
Our  traveller  scarcely  heard  her;  but  when  he  came  to 
one  room,  which  he  would  not  enter  till  the  last  (it  was 
the  little  parlor  in  which  the  once  happy  family  had  been 
wont  to  sit),  he  sank  down  in  the  chair  that  had  been 
Lester’s  honured  seat,  and,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  did  not  move  or  look  up  for  several  moments. 
The  old  woman  gazed  at  him  with  surprise. — “Perhaps, 
sir,  you  knew  the  family?  —  they  were  greatly  beloved.” 

The  traveller  did  not  answer ;  but  when  he  rose,  he 
muttered  to  himself, — “No;  the  experiment  is  made  in 
vain!  Never,  never  could  I  live  here  again  —  it  must 
be  so  —  the  house  of  my  forefathers  must  pass  into  a 
stranger’s  hands.”  With  this  reflection  he  hurried  from 
the  house,  and,  re-entering  the  garden,  turned  through 
a  little  gate  that  swung  half  open  on  its  shattered  hinges, 
and  led  into  the  green  and  quiet  sanctuaries  of  the  dead. 
The  same  touching  character  of  deep  and  undisturbed 
repose  that  hallows  the  country  churchyard, —  and  that 
one  more  than  most, —  yet  brooded  there,  as  when,  years 
ago,  it  woke  his  young  mind  to  reflection,  then  unmingled 
with  regret. 

He  passed  over  the  rude  mounds  of  earth  that  covered 
the  deceased  poor,  and  paused  at  a  tomb  of  higher,  though 


326 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


but  of  simple  pretensions ;  it  was  not  yet  discolored  by 
the  dews  and  seasons,  and  the  short  inscription  traced 
upon  it  was  strikingly  legible  in  comparison  with  those 
around  : — 


Rowland  Lester, 

Obiit  1760,  set.  64. 

Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall 
be  comforted. 

By  that  tomb  the  traveller  remained  in  undistarbed 
contemplation  for  some  time  ;  and  when  he  turned,  all 
the  swarthy  color  had  died  from  his  cheek,  his  eyes  were 
dim,  and  the  wonted  pride  of  a  young  man’s  step  and  a 
soldier’s  bearing  was  gone  from  his  mien. 

As  he  looked  up,  his  eye  caught  afar,  embedded  among 
the  soft  verdure  of  the  spring,  one  lone  and  grey  house, 
from  whose  chimney  there  rose  no  smoke  —  sad,  inhospi¬ 
table,  dismantled  as  that  beside  which  he  now  stood  -as 
if  the  curse  which  had  fallen  on  the  inmates  of  either  man¬ 
sion  still  clung  to  either  roof.  One  hasty  glance  only, 
the  traveller  gave  to  the  solitary  and  distant  abode, — 
and  then  started  and  quickened  his  pace. 

On  re-entering  the  stables,  the  traveller  found  the  cor¬ 
poral  examining  his  horse  from  head  to  foot  with  great 
care  and  attention. 

“  Good  hoofs  too,  humph  !”  quoth  the  corporal,  as  he 
released  the  front  leg ;  and,  turning  round,  saw,  with 
some  little  confusion,  the  owner  of  the  steed  he  had  been 
nonoring  with  so  minute  a  survey.  “  Oh, —  augh  !  look- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


327 


ing  at  the  beastie,  sir,  lest  it  might  have  cast  a  shoe. 
Thought  your  honor  might  want  some  intelligent  person 
to  show  you  the  premises,  if  so  be  you  have  come  to  buy  ; 
nothing  but  an  old  ’oman  there;  dare  say  your  honor 
d^es  lot  like  old  ’omen  —  augh!” 

“  The  owner  is  not  in  these  parts  ?  ”  said  the  horseman. 

“No,  over  seas,  sir;  a  fine  young  gentleman,  but 
hasty;  and  —  and  —  but  Lord  bless  me!  sure  —  no,  it 
can’t  be  —  yes,  now  you  turn  —  it  is  —  it  is  my  young 
master  !  ”  So  saying,  the  corporal,  roused  into  affection, 
hobbled  up  to  the  wanderer,  and  seized  and  kissed  his 
hand.  “Ah,  s;r,  we  shall  be  glad,  indeed,  to  see  you  back 
after  such  doings.  But’s  all  forgotten  now,  and  gone  by 
—  augh  !”  Poor  Miss  Ellinor,  how  happy  she’ll  be  to 
see  your  honor  !  Ah  !  how  she  be  changed,  surely  !  ” 

“  Changed  ;  ay,  I  make  no  doubt !  What  ?  does  she 
look  in  weak  health  ?  ” 

“No  ;  as  to  that,  your  honor,  she  be  winsome  enough 
still,”  quoth  the  corporal,  smacking  his  lips;  “I  seed 

her  the  week  afore  last,  when  I  went  over  to - ,  for  I 

suppose  you  knows  as  she  lives  there,  all  alone  like,  in  a 
small  house,  with  a  green  rail  afore  it,  and  a  brass  knocker 
on  the  door  at  top  of  the  town,  with  a  fine  view  of  the 

- hills  in  front.  Well,  sir,  I  seed  her,  and  mighty 

nandsome  she  looked,  though  a  litte  thinner  than  she  was  ; 
but,  for  all  that,  she  be  greatly  changed.” 

“  How  !  for  the  worse  ?  ” 

“  For  the  worse,  indeed,”  answered  the  corporal,  as¬ 
suming  an  air  of  melancholy  and  grave  significance  ;  “  she 
28* 


828 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


be  grown  so  religious,  sir,  think  of  that  —  augh  —  bothe! 
. —  whaugh  !  ” 

“  Ts  that  all  ?  ”  said  Walter,  relieved,  and  with  a  slight 
Bmile.  “And  she  lives  alone  ?  ” 

“Quite,  poor  young  lady,  as  if  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  be  an  old  maid  ;  though  I  know  as  how  she 
refused  Squire  Knyvett  of  the  Grange; — waiting  for 
your  honor’s  return,  mayhap  !  ” 

“  Lead  out  the  horse,  Bunting ;  but  stay,  I  am  sorry 
to  see  you  with  a  crutch  ;  what’s  the  cause  ?  no  accident, 
I  trust  ?  ” 

“  Merely  rheumatics  —  will  attack  the  youngest  of  us  ; 
never  been  quite  myself  since  I  went  a  travelling  with 
your  honor  —  augh  1  —  without  going  to  Lunnun  arter 
all.  But  I  shall  be  stronger  next  year,  I  dare  to  say  !  ” 
“  I  hope  you  will,  Bunting.  And  Miss  Lester  lives 
alone,  you  say  ?  ” 

“Ay ;  and  for  all  she  be  so  religious,  the  poor  about 
do  bless  her  very  footsteps.  She  does  a  power  of  good ; 
she  gave  me  half-a-guinea  last  Tuesday  fortnight ;  an 
excellent  young  lady,  so  sensible  like  !  ” 

“  Thank  you  ;  I  can  tighten  the  girths  !  —  so  ! — there. 
Bunting, —  there’s  something  for  old  companionship’s 
sake.” 

“Thank  your  h-onor;  you  be  too  good,  always  was  — 
baugh  !  But  I  hopes  your  honor  be  a  coming  to  live 
here  now  ;  ’twill  make  things  smile  again  !  ” 

“  No,  Bunting,  I  fear  not,”  said  Walter,  spurring 
through  the  gates  of  the  yard. — “Good  day.” 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


329 


“Augh,  then,”  cried  the  corporal,  hobbling  breath¬ 
lessly  after  him,  “if  so  be  as  I  shan’t  see  your  honor  agin, 
at  which  I  am  extremely  consarned,  will  your  honor  re¬ 
collect  your  promise,  touching  the  ’tato  ground  ?  The 
steward,  Master  Bailey,  ’od  rot  him  !  has  clean  forgot  it 

—  augh  1  ” 

“The  same  old  man,  Bunting,  eh  ?  Well,  make  your 
mind  easy;  it  shall  be  done.” 

“  Lord  bless  your  honor’s  good  heart ;  thank  ye  ;  and 

—  and”  laying  his  hand  on  the  bridle — “your  honor  did 
say  the  bit  cot  should  be  rent-free  ?  You  see,  your  honor,” 
quoth  the  corporal,  drawing  up  with  a  grave  smile,  “  I 
may  marry  some  day  or  other,  and  have  a  large  family ; 
and  the  rent  won’t  sit  so  easy  then  —  augh  !  ” 

“Let  go  the  rein,  Bunting  —  and  consider  your  house 
rent-free.” 

“And  your  honor  —  and - ” 

But  Walter  was  already  in  a  brisk  trot ;  and  the  remain¬ 
ing  petitions  of  the  corporal  died  in  empty  air. 

“A  good  day’s  work,  too,”  muttered  Jacob,  hobbling 
homewardr  “  What  a  green  un  ’tis,  still !  Never  be  a 
man  of  the  world  —  augh  !  ” 

For  two  hours  Walter  did  not  relax  the  rapidity  of  his 
pace  ;  and  when  he  did  so  at  the  descent  of  a  steep  hill, 
a  small  country  town  lay  before  him,  the  sun  glittering 
on  its  single  spire;  and  lighting  up  the  long,  clean,  centre 
street,  with  the  good  old-fashioned  garden  stretching 
behind  each  house,  and  detached  cottages  around,  peeping 
forth  here  and  there  from  the  blossoms  and  verdure  of 


330 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  young  May.  He  rode  into  the  yard  of  the  principal 
inn,  and  putting  up  his  horse,  inquired,  in  a  tone  that  he 
persuaded  himself  was  the  tone  of  indifference,  for  Miss 
Lester’s  house. 

“John,”  said  the  landlady  (landlord  there  was  no  le), 
summoning  a  little  boy  of  about  ten  years  old — “run  on 
and  show  this  gentleman  the  good  lady’s  house  :  and  — 
stay  —  his  honor  will  excuse  you  a  moment — just  take 
up  the  nosegay  you  cut  for  her  this  morning  :  she  loves 
flowers.  Ah  !  sir,  an  excellent  young  lady  is  Miss  Les¬ 
ter,”  continued  the  hostess,  as  the  boy  ran  back  for  the 
nosegay ;  “  so  charitable,  so  kind,  so  meek  to  all.  Adver¬ 
sity,  they  say,  softens  some  characters ;  but  she  must  always 
have  been  good.  Well,  God  bless  her  !  and  that  every 
one  must  say.  My  boy  John,  sir, —  he  is  not  eleven  yet, 
come  next  August — a  ’cute  boy,  calls  her  the  good  lady  : 
we  now  always  call  her  so  here.  Come,  John,  that’s 
right.  You  stay  to  dine  here,  sir?  Shall  I  put  down 
a  chicken  ?  ” 

i 

At  the  farther  extremity  of  the  town  stood  Miss  Les¬ 
ter’s  dwelling.  It  was  the  house  in  which  her  father  had 
spent  his  last  days  ;  and  there  she  had  continued  to  reside, 
when  left  by  his  death  to  a  small  competence,  which 
Walter,  then  abroad,  had  persuaded  her  (for  her  pride 
was  of  the  right  kind)  to  suffer  him,  though  but  slightly, 
to  increase.  It  was  a  detached  and  small  building,  stand¬ 
ing  a  little  from  the  road  ;  and  Walter  paused  for  some 
moments  at  the  garden-gate,  and  gazed  round  him  before 
he  followed  his  young  guide,  who,  tripping  lightly  up  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


331 


gravel-walk  to  the  door,  rang  the  bell,  and  inquired  il 
Miss  Lester  was  within  ? 

Walter  was  left  for  some  moments  alone  in  a  little 
parlor :  he  required  those  moments  to  recover  himself 
from  the  past  that  rushed  sweepingly  over  him.  And 
was  it  —  yes,  it  was  Ellinor  that  now  stood  before  him  ! 
—  Changed  she  was,  indeed  ;  the  slight  girl  had  budded 
into  woman  ;  changed  she  was,  indeed  ;  the  bound  had 
for  ever  left  that  step,  once  so  elastic  with  hope  ;  the 
vivacity  of  the  quick,  dark  eye  was  soft  and  quiet ;  the 
rich  color  had  given  place  to  a  hue  fainter,  though  not 
less  lovely.  But  to  repeat  in  verse  what  is  poorly  bodied 
forth  in  prose  — 

“And  years  had  past,  and  thus  they  met  again ; 

The  wind  had  swept  along  the  flower  since  then* 

O’er  her  fair  cheek  a  paler  lustre  spread, 

As  if  the  white  rose  triumph’d  o’er  the  red. 

No  more  she  walk’d  exulting  on  the  air; 

Light  though  her  step,  there  was  a  languor  there: 

No  more  —  her  spirit  bursting  from  its  bound, — 

She  stood,  like  Hebe,  scattering  smiles  around.” 

“  Ellinor  !  ”  said  Walter,  mournfully,  “  thank  God  !  we 
meet  at  last.” 

“  That  voice  —  that  face  —  my  cousin  —  my  dear,  dear 
Walter !  ” 

All  reserve,  all  consciousness,  fled  in  the  delight  of  that 
moment ;  and  Ellinor  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  scarcely  felt  the  kiss  that  he  pressed  upon  her  lips. 

“And  so  long  absent !  ”  said  Ellinor,  reproachfully. 

“  But  did  you  not  tell  me  that  the  blow  that  had  fallen 


332 


EUGENE  ARAM 


on  our  house  had  stricken  from  you  all  thoughts  of  love 

—  had  divided  us  for  ever?  And  what,  Ellinor,  was 
England  or  home  without  you  ?  ” 

“Ah  !  ”  said  Ellinor,  recovering  herself,  and  a  deep 
paleness  succeeding  to  the  warm  and  delighted  flush,  that 
had  been  conjured  to  her  cheek,  “do  not  revive  the  past; 
I  have  sought  for  years  —  long,  solitary,  desolate  years 

—  to  escape  from  its  dark  recollections  !  ” 

“You  speak  wisely,  dearest  Ellinor;  let  us  assist  each 

# 

other  in  doing  so.  We  are  alone  in  the  world  —  let  us 
unite  our  lots.  Never,  through  all  I  have  seen  and  felt, 

—  in  the  starry  night-watch  of  camps  —  in  the  blaze  of 
courts — by  the  sunny  groves  of  Italy — in  the  deep  forests 
of  the  Hartz  —  never  have  I  forgotten  you,  my  sweet  and 
dear  cousin.  Your  image  has  linked  itself  indissolubly 
with  all  I  conceived  of  home  and  happiness,  and  a  tranquil 
and  peaceful  future  ;  and  now  I  return,  and  see  you,  and 
find  you  changed,  but  oh,  how  lovely  !  Ah,  let  us  not 
part  again  !  A  consoler,  a  guide,  a  soother,  father,  brother, 
husband, — all  this  my  heart  whispers  I  could  be  to  you  !” 

Ellinor  turned  away  her  face,  but  her  heart  was  very 
full.  The  solitary  years  that  had  passed  over  her  since 
they  last  met,  rose  up  before  her.  The  only  living  image 
that  had  mingled  through  those  years  with  the  dreams 
of  the  departed,  was  his  who  now  knelt  at  her  feet ;  — - 
her  sole  friend  —  her  sole  relative  —  her  first  —  her  last 
love  !  Of  all  the  world,  he  was  the  only  one  with  whom 
she  could  recur  to  the  past ;  on  whom  she  might  repose 
her  bruised  but  still  unconquered  affections.  And  Walter 


EUGENE  ARAM 


383 


knew  by  that  blush  —  that  sigh  —  that  tear,  that  he  waa 
remembered  —  that  he  was  beloved  —  that  his  cousin  was 
his  own  at  last ! 

“  But  before  you  end,”  said  my  friend,  to  whom  I  showed 
the  above  pages,  originally  concluding  my  tale  with  the 
last  sentence,  “you  must, —  it  is  a  comfortable  and  ortho* 
dox  old  fashion, —  tell  us  a  little  about  the  fate  of  the 
other  persons  to  whom  you  have  introduced  us:  —  the 
wretch  Houseman  ?  ” 

“  True  ;  in  the  mysterious  course  of  mortal  affairs,  the 
greater  villain  had  escaped,  the  more  generous  fallen. 
But  though  Houseman  died  without  violence  —  died  in 
his  bed,  as  honest  men  die  —  we  can  scarcely  believe  that 
his  life  was  not  punishment  enough.  He  lived  in  strict 
seclusion  —  the  seclusion  of  poverty,  and  maintained  him¬ 
self  by  dressing  flax.  His  life  was  several  times  attempted 
by  the  mob,  for  he  was  an  object  of  uuiversal  execration 
and  horror  ;  and  even  ten  years  afterwards,  when  he  died, 
his  body  was  buried  in  secret  at  the  dead  of  night,  for 
the  hatred  of  the  world  survived  him  !  ” 

“And  the  corporal,  did  he  marry  in  his  old  age  ?  ” 

“History  telleth  of  one  Jacob  Bunting,  whose  wile, 
several  years  younger  than  himself,  played  him  certain 
sorry  pranks  with  a  rakish  squire  in  the  neighborhood  : 
the  said  Jacob  knowing  nothing  thereof,  but  furnishing 
great  oblectation  unto  his  neighbors  by  boasting  that  he 
turned  an  excellent  penny  by  selling  poultry  to  his  honor 
above  market  prices, — ‘  For  Bessy,  my  girl,  I’m  a  man 
of  the  world  —  aughl’” 


334 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


“  Contented  !  a  suitable  fate  for  the  old  dog. —  But 
Peter  Dealtry  ?  ” 

“  Of  Peter  Dealtry  know  we  nothing  more,  save  that 
we  have  seen  at  Grassdale  churchyard  a  small  tombstone 
inscribed  to  his  memory,  with  the  following  sacred  posy 
thereto  appended :  — 

‘AVe  flourish,  saith  the  holy  text, 

One  hour,  and  are  cut  down  the  next: 

I  was  like  grass  but  yesterday, 

But  Death  has  mowed  me  into  hay.’”  * 

“And  his  namesake,  Sir  Peter  Grindlescrew  Hales  ?  ” 

“Went  through  a  long  life,  honored  and  respected, 
but  met  with  domestic  misfortunes  in  old  age.  His  eldest 
son  married  a  servant-maid,  and  his  youngest  daughter 

_ V 

“  Eloped  with  the  groom  ?  ” 

“  By  no  means  :  with  a  young  spendthrift  —  the  very 
picture  of  what  Sir  Peter  was  in  his  youth.  They  were 
both  struck  out  of  their  father’s  will,  and  Sir  Peter  died 
in  the  arms  of  his  eight  remaining  children,  seven  of  whom 
never  forgave  his  memory  for  not  being  the  eighth,  viz. 
chief  heir.” 

“And  his  contemporary,  John  Courtland,  the  non¬ 
hypochondriac  ?  ” 

“  Died  of  sudden  suffocation,  as  he  was  crossing  Houns¬ 
low  Heath.” 

“  But  Lord  *****?’’ 

“  Lived  to  a  great  age  ;  his  last  days,  owing  to  growing 


*  Verbatim. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


335 


infirmities,  were  spent  out  of  the  world  ;  every  one  pitied 
him, —  it  was  the  happiest  time  of  his  life  !  ” 

“  Dame  Darkmans  !  ” 

“Was  found  dead  in  her  bed;  from  over-fatigue,  it 
was  supposed,  in  making  merry  at  the  funeral  of  a  young 
girl  on  the  previous  day.” 

“Weill  —  hem, —  and  so  Walter  and  his  cousin  were 
really  married  !  And  did  they  never  return  to  the  old 
manor-house  ?  ” 

“  No ;  the  memory  that  is  allied  only  to  melancholy 
grows  sweet  with  years,  and  hallows  the  spot  which  it 
haunts ;  not  so  the  memory  allied  to  dread,  terror,  and 
something  too  of  shame.  Walter  sold  the  property  with 
some  pangs  of  natural  regret ;  after  his  marriage  with 
Eilinor  he  returned  abroad  for  some  time,  but  finally 
settled  in  England,  engaged  in  active  life,  and  left  to  his 
posterity  a  name  they  still  honor ;  and  to  his  country, 
the  memory  of  some  services  that  will  not  lightly  pass 
away. 

“But  one  dread  and  gloomy  remembrance  never  for¬ 
sook  hi*s  mind,  and  exercised  the  most  powerful  influence 
over  the  actions  and  motives  of  his  life.  In  every  emer¬ 
gency,  in  every  temptation,  there  rose  to  his  eyes  the  fate 
of  him  so  gifted,  so  noble  in  much,  so  formed  for  great¬ 
ness  in  all  things,  blasted  by  one  crime  —  a  crime,  the 
offspring  of  bewildered  reasonings  —  all  the  while  spec¬ 
ulating  upon  virtue.  And  that  fate,  revealing  the  darker 
secrets  of  our  kind,  in  which  the  true  science  of  morals  is 

chiefly  found,  taught  him  the  twofold  lesson, —  caution 
II. — 29  2p 


336 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


for  himself,  and  charity  for  others.  He  knew  henceforth 
that  even  the  criminal  is  not  all  evil ;  the  angel  within  us 
is  not  easily  expelled  ;  it  survives  sin,  ay,  and  many  sins, 
and  leaves  us  sometimes  in  amaze  and  marvel  at  the  good 
that  lingers  round  the  heart  even  of  the  hardiest  offender. 

“And  Ellinor  clung  with  more  than  revived  affection  to 
one  with  whose  lot  she  was  now  allied.  Walter  was  her 
last  tie  upon  earth,  and  in  him  she  learned,  day  by  day, 
more  lavishly  to  treasure  up  her  heart.  Adversity  and 
trial  had  ennobled  the  character  of  both  ;  and  she  who 
had  so  long  seen  in  her  cousin  all  she  could  love,  beheld 
now  in  her  husband  —  all  that  she  could  venerate  and 
admire.  A  certain  religious  fervor,  in  which,  after  the 
calamities  of  her  family,  she  had  indulged,  continued  with 
her  to  the  last ;  but  (softened  by  human  ties,  and  the 
reciprocation  of  earthly  duties  and  affections),  it  was 
fortunately  preserved  either  from  the  undue  enthusiasm 
or  the  undue  austerity  into  which  it  would  otherwise,  in 
all  likelihood,  have  merged.  What  remained,  however, 
uniting  her  most  cheerful  thoughts  with  something  serious, 
and  the  happiest  moments  of  the  present  with  the  dim 
and  solemn  forecast  of  the  future,  elevated  her  nature, 
not  depressed,  and  made  itself  visible  rather  in  tender 
than  in  sombre  hues.  And  it  was  sweet,  when  the  thought 
of  Madeline  and  her  father  came  across  her,  to  recur  at 
once  for  consolation  to  that  heaven  in  which  she  believed 
their  tears  were  dried,  and  their  past  sorrows  but  a  for¬ 
gotten  dream  !  There  is.  indeed,  a  time  of  life  when 
these  reflections  make  our  chief,  though  a  melancholy 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


337 


pleasure.  As  we  grow  older,  and  sometimes  a  hope, 
sometimes  a  friend,  vanishes  from  our  path,  the  thought 
of  an  immortality  will  press  itself  forcibly  upon  us  !  and 
there,  by  little  and  little,  as  the  ant  piles  grain  after  grain, 
the  garners  of  a  future  sustenance,  we  learn  to  carry  our 
hopes,  and  harvest,  as  it  were,  our  wishes. 

“  Our  cousins,  then,  were  happy.  Happy,  for  they 
loved  one  another  entirely ;  and  on  those  who  do  so  love, 
I  sometimes  think  that,  barring  physical  pain  and  extreme 
poverty,  the  ills  of  life  fall  with  but  idle  malice.  Yes, 
they  were  happy,  in  spite  of  the  past  and  in  defiance  of 
the  future.” 

“  I  am  satisfied,  then,”  said  my  friend, — “  and  your  tale 
is  fairly  done  1  ” 


And  now,  reader,  farewell !  If  sometimes,  as  thou  hast 
gone  with  me  to  this  our  parting  spot,  thou  hast  suffered 
thy  companion  to  win  the  mastery  over  thine  interest,  to 
flash  now  on  thy  convictions,  to  touch  now  thy  heart,  to 
guide  thy  hope,  to  excite  thy  terror,  to  gain,  it  may  be, 
to  the  sources  of  thy  tears  —  then  is  there  a  tie  between 
thee  and  me  which  cannot  readily  be  broken  !  And  when 
thou  hearest  the  malice  that  wrongs  affect  the  candor 
which  should  judge,  shall  he  not  find  in  thy  sympathies 
th<  defence,  or  in  thy  charity  the  inulgence, — of  a  friend  ? 


THE  END. 


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*  *• 

■ 

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V 


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